Emily Dickinson — The Tint I cannot take—is best 627

The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight— The fine—impalpable Array— That swaggers on the eye Like Cleopatra's Company— Repeated—in the sky— The Moments of Dominion That happen on the Soul And leave it with a Discontent Too exquisite—to tell— The eager look—on Landscapes— As if they just repressed Some Secret—that was pushing Like Chariots—in the Vest— The Pleading of the Summer— That other Prank—of Snow— That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels—know. Their Graspless manners—mock us— Until the Cheated Eye Shuts arrogantly—in the Grave— Another way—to see—