Asleep. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

As far from pity as complaint,
    As cool to speech as stone,
    As numb to revelation
    As if my trade were bone.

    As far from time as history,
    As near yourself to-day
    As children to the rainbow’s scarf,
    Or sunset’s yellow play

    To eyelids in the sepulchre.
    How still the dancer lies,
    While color’s revelations break,
    And blaze the butterflies!