There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons—
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral tunes—

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are—

None may teach it—Any—
‘Tis the Seal, degreed—
The Pressure of the Sky—
For a Soul, that is
A Crow could hear it thro’ the Coast—

And what sings in the Slant of light—
Holds some Sky—

And nothing in the land but
‘Is not toward itself.’

• Emily Dickinson