Arid

Posted on by impossiblebebong

There is an arid Pleasure—
As different from Joy—
As Frost is different from Dew—
Like element—are they—

Yet one—rejoices Flowers—
And one—the Flowers abhor—
The finest Honey—curdled—
Is worthless—to the Bee—

—————————

Rather arid delight
If Contentment accrue
Make an abstemious Ecstasy
Not so good as joy—

But Rapture’s Expense
Must not be incurred
With a tomorrow knocking
And the Rent unpaid—

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

stock-footage-light-focuses-on-the-hands-of-a-man-typing-on-a-vintage-s-style-manual-typewriter-film-noir

Published by impossiblebebong

Predictably Unpredictable. Fearlessly Authentic. Observing and absorbing life, collecting knowledge along the way, selecting what's best and keeping what is needed.

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