Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with iron… - Emily Dickinson

I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, — just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons-
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes-

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are-

None may teach-Any-
'Tis the Seal Despair-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air-

When it comes, the Landscape listens-
Shadows-hold their breath-
When it goes.'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death-

It was a quiet way -
He asked if I was his -
I made no answer of the tongue
But answer of the eyes -
And then He bore me on
Before this mortal noise
With swiftness, as of Chariots
and distance, as of Wheels.
This World did drop away
As acres from the feet
of one that leaneth from Balloon
Upon an Ether Street.
The Gulf behind was not,
The Continents were new -
Eternity was due.
No Seasons were to us -
It was not Night nor Morn -
But Sunrise stopped upon the place
And Fastened in Dawn.