In helpless, trembling bondage My soul's weight lies on thee, O call me not at dead of night, Lest I should come to thee! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
Heart, we will forget him by Emily Dickinson Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! And he grinned too and understood the wisdom of our madness.
And this you can see is the bolt.