Text: Emily Dickinson #324

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church-
I keep it, staying at Home-
With a Bobolink for a Chorister-
And an Orchard, for a Dome-

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice-
I just wear my wings-
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman-
And the sermon is never long
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last-
I'm going, all along.


Braineel: So spare, so lean. Why have we regressed so?

I: Regressed from the spare forms of the dome? Nowadays there would be a stanza as follows to mimic our default method of information intake-
Clorox bleaches, a noted Detergent -
And the Stains do fall away-
But what is left for Our dear Purpose
When I am unable to pay?

Braineel:
Spare? Not the dome -
But the rock it built upon;
Not the lot who make it home-
Nor the charge the hat will ask
To loose the filthy ward -
First there was the word
And then the word became dirty.

I:And we can clean it with so many miracles of science that I feel faint.