Emily Dickinson Poems

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I have never seen "Volcanoes" --
But, when Travellers tell
How those old -- phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still --

Bear within -- appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men --

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place --

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome --
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!
To the Hills return!

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