How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel — how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice..… - Emily Dickinson

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love ; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

I never saw a Moor -
I never saw the Sea -
Yet know I how the Heather looks

And what a Billow be.
I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven -
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given -

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —