Troubled About Many Things. By Emily Dickinson

    How many times these low feet staggered,
    Only the soldered mouth can tell;
    Try! can you stir the awful rivet?
    Try! can you lift the hasps of steel?

    Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often,
    Lift, if you can, the listless hair;
    Handle the adamantine fingers
    Never a thimble more shall wear.

    Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window;
    Brave shines the sun through the freckled pane;
    Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling —
    Indolent housewife, in daisies lain!