Nature sweeps amid the Hall –
And finds her Leaves too fair –
In every other Flower there
That never treads in care –

For, in the midst of Happy green,
A yielding heart can give
The great delight that feathers round
And seals its way to Live –

So let the heart be always light –
And see those petals wound –
A softness glows from nigh –
Till bloom is round, without a Sound –

And, should the Night creep on to hide
A Fraction of our Dream –
To wreathe them all as if to save
The Egg had found its gleam –

And if its hallowed Secrets fade,
From somewhere missed away –
Then, let thy heart remain a sky
Till morn shall breathe – decay.

• Emily Dickinson