Until upon a Pane —
She stopped — a Traveller's privilege — for rest —
And there upon
I gazed — as at a stranger —
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass — upon —
But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine — for not a Foot — nor Hand —
Nor Formula — had she —
But like a Head — a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away —
Did independent, Amber —
Sustain her in the sky —
Or like a Stemless Flower —
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations —
Than bind Philosopher —
No Hunger — had she — nor an Inn —
Her Toilette — to suffice —
Nor Avocation — nor Concern
For little Mysteries
As harass us — like Life — and Death —
And Afterwards — or Nay —
But seemed engrossed to Absolute —
With shining — and the Sky —
The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise —
She vaulted out of Gaze —
And next — I met her on a Cloud —
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road —
Or its advantage — Blue —
Source: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
