Refuge

XVI. REFUGE.

The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell, The lightning skipped like mice ; The thunder crumbled like a stuff — How good to be safe in tombs, Where nature's temper cannot reach, Nor vengeance ever comes !

 

from Poems by Emily Dickinson (1890)
"I've seen a dying eye"	"I never saw a moor"

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