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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=385478" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Although I put away his life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">366</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Although I put away his life—<br>An Ornament too grand<br>For Forehead low as mine, to wear,<br>This might have been the Hand</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That sowed the flower, he preferred—<br>Or smoothed a homely pain,<br>Or pushed the pebble from his path—<br>Or played his chosen tune—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Lute the least—the latest—<br>But just his Ear could know<br>That whatsoe'er delighted it,<br>I never would let go—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The foot to bear his errand—<br>A little Boot I know—<br>Would leap abroad like Antelope—<br>With just the grant to do—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His weariest Commandment—<br>A sweeter to obey,<br>Than "Hide and Seek"—<br>Or skip to Flutes—<br>Or all Day, chase the Bee—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your Servant, Sir, will weary—<br>The Surgeon, will not come—<br>The World, will have its own—to do—<br>The Dust, will vex your Fame—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Cold will force your tightest door<br>Some February Day,<br>But say my apron bring the sticks<br>To make your Cottage gay—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That I may take that promise<br>To Paradise, with me—<br>To teach the Angels, avarice,<br>You, Sir, taught first—to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Emily+Dickinson">Emily Dickinson</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=385478" data-title="Although I put away his life de Emily Dickinson" data-description="366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear, This might have been the Hand That sowed the flower, he preferred— Or smoothed a homely pain, Or pushed the pebble from his path— Or pla..."></div> </div> </div>
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