A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King. - Emily Dickinson

The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more — Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing — At her low Gate — Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat — I've known her — from an ample nation — Choose One — Then — close the Valves of her attention — Like Stone —

Within my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered through the village,
Sauntered as soft away!
So unsuspected violets
Within the fields lie low,
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago.

The Ocean’s Heart too Smooth - too Blue -
To break for you.