Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XI
XIII

The Master

He fumbles at your spirit
  As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
  He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
  For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
  Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
  Your brain to bubble cool, —
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
  That scalps your naked soul.