XXIV

THE WAY I read a letter’s this:

’T is first I lock the door,

And push it with my fingers next,

For transport it be sure.

And then I go the furthest off

To counteract a knock;

Then draw my little letter forth

And softly pick its lock.

Then, glancing narrow at the wall,

And narrow at the floor,

For firm conviction of a mouse

Not exorcised before,

Peruse how infinite I am

To—no one that you know!

And sigh for lack of heaven,—but not

The heaven the creeds bestow.