Tho' I Get Home How Late-how Late
Emily Dickinson
207 Tho’ I get home how late—how late— So I get home—’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me— When Night—descending—dumb—and dark— They hear my unexpected knock— Transporting must the moment be— Brewed from decades of Agony! To think just how the fire will burn— Just how long-cheated eyes will turn— To wonder what myself will say, And what itself, will say to me— Beguiles the Centuries of way!
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