Emily Dickinson



the saddest noise, the sweetest noise

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, the maddest noise that grows, the birds, they make it in the spring, at night’s delicious close. Between the March and April line that magical frontier beyond which summer hesitates, almost too heavenly near. It makes us think of all the dead that sauntered with us here, by separation’s sorcery made cruelly more dear. It makes us think of what we had, and what we now deplore. We almost wish those siren throats would go and sing no more. An ear can break a human heart as quickly as a spear, we wish the ear had not a heart so dangerously near.

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