The Secret. By Emily Dickinson

    Some things that fly there be, —
    Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
    Of these no elegy.

    Some things that stay there be, —
    Grief, hills, eternity:
    Nor this behooveth me.

    There are, that resting, rise.
    Can I expound the skies?
    How still the riddle lies!