Emily Dickinson — It might be lonelier

405 It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness I'm so accustomed to my Fate Perhaps the Other—Peace Would interrupt the Dark And crowd the little Room Too scant—by Cubits—to contain The Sacrament—of Him I am not used to Hope It might intrude upon Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place Ordained to Suffering It might be easier To fail—with Land in Sight Than gain—My Blue Peninsula To perish—of Delight