GRIEF IS A MOUSE

Grief is a mouse,
And chooses wainscot in the breast
For his shy house,
And baffles quest.

Grief is a thief,
Quick startled, pricks his ear
Report to hear of that vast dark
That swept his being back.

Grief is a juggler,
Boldest at the play,
Lest if he finch,
The eye that way

Ponce on his bruises,
One, say, or three.
Grief is a gourmand,
Span his luxury.

Best grief is tongueless –
Before he’ll tell,
Burn him in the public square,
His embers will,

Possibly. If they refuse
How then know,
Since a rack couldn’t coax
A syllable now.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)