The Letter. By Emily Dickinson

    “GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him —
    Tell him the page I did n’t write;
    Tell him I only said the syntax,
    And left the verb and the pronoun out.
    Tell him just how the fingers hurried,
    Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow;
    And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,
    So you could see what moved them so.

    “Tell him it was n’t a practised writer,
    You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;
    You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,
    As if it held but the might of a child;
    You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
    Tell him — No, you may quibble there,
    For it would split his heart to know it,
    And then you and I were silenter.

    “Tell him night finished before we finished,
    And the old clock kept neighing ‘day!’
    And you got sleepy and begged to be ended —
    What could it hinder so, to say?
    Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,
    But if he ask where you are hid
    Until to-morrow, — happy letter!
    Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!”