Choice. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Of all the souls that stand create
    I have elected one.
    When sense from spirit files away,
    And subterfuge is done;

    When that which is and that which was
    Apart, intrinsic, stand,
    And this brief tragedy of flesh
    Is shifted like a sand;

    When figures show their royal front
    And mists are carved away, —
    Behold the atom I preferred
    To all the lists of clay!