The Soul’s Storm. By Emily Dickinson

    It struck me every day
    The lightning was as new
    As if the cloud that instant slit
    And let the fire through.

    It burned me in the night,
    It blistered in my dream;
    It sickened fresh upon my sight
    With every morning’s beam.

    I thought that storm was brief, —
    The maddest, quickest by;
    But Nature lost the date of this,
    And left it in the sky.