Emily Dickinson — The Lightning playeth—all the while

630 The Lightning playeth—all the while But when He singeth—then Ourselves are conscious He exist And we approach Him—stern With Insulators—and a Glove Whose short—sepulchral Bass Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet May pass—and counterpass Upon the Ropes—above our Head Continual—with the News Nor We so much as check our speech Nor stop to cross Ourselves