Emily Dickinson

I Would Not Paint a Picture

poem 505

I would not paint a picture I’d rather be the One Its bright impossibility To dwell delicious on And wonder how the fingers feel Whose rare celestial stir Evokes so sweet a Torment Such sumptuous Despair I would not talk, like Cornets I’d rather be the One Raised softly to the Ceilings And out, and easy on Through Villages of Ether Myself endued Balloon By but a lip of Metal The pier to my Pontoon Nor would I be a Poet It’s finer own the Ear Enamored impotent content The License to revere, A privilege so awful What would the Dower be, Had I the Art to stun myself With Bolts of Melody!

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