Two Worlds. By Emily Dickinson

    It makes no difference abroad,
    The seasons fit the same,
    The mornings blossom into noons,
    And split their pods of flame.

    Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,
    The brooks brag all the day;
    No blackbird bates his jargoning
    For passing Calvary.

    Auto-da-fe and judgment
    Are nothing to the bee;
    His separation from his rose
    To him seems misery.