The Master. By Emily Dickinson

    He fumbles at your spirit
    As players at the keys
    Before they drop full music on;
    He stuns you by degrees,

    Prepares your brittle substance
    For the ethereal blow,
    By fainter hammers, further heard,
    Then nearer, then so slow

    Your breath has time to straighten,
    Your brain to bubble cool, —
    Deals one imperial thunderbolt
    That scalps your naked soul.