Emily Dickinson — It makes no difference abroad

620 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 slam—all the Day No Black bird bates his Banjo For passing Calvary Auto da Fe—and Judgment Are nothing to the Bee His separation from His Rose To Him—sums Misery