The Toad beneath the harrow
Knows exactly where it goes;
It cannot simply happen
To be anything it knows –

Yet how can we suspect him
Of being less than sure;
Would he appease each Shadow
Doth he so miss the Day?

Which yet is but a promise –
To the beauty which is bright;
Upon the width of Wormwood
May his life, disclose, tonight –

And every future meeting
Secures the rest, he holds –
With every footfall known to him –
Aside each flower that unfolds –

And maybe, it grants –
The colors in the Garden
Though he never would discern
The final Work – by Heart –

That offers every Festival –
But he’d not gasp it full –
For he shall keep the wisdom –
Fully closed, to fail

Around the ceil – of Nature –
In every Grain, that plays –
The silence sure of Beauty burns
To render it away!

• Emily Dickinson