The Soul selects her own Society
—— Emily Dickinson
The Soul selects her own Society,
Then - shuts the door.
To her divine majority,
Present no more.
Unmoved - she notes the chariots' pausing,
At her low gate;
Unmoved - an emperor is keenling,
Upon her mat.
I've known her - from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then - close the valves of her attention,
Like stone