Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

We cover thee, sweet face.

Not that we tire of thee,

But that thyself fatigue of us;

Remember, as thou flee,

We follow thee until

Thou notice us no more,

And then, reluctant, turn away

To con thee o'er and o'er,

And blame the scanty love

We were content to show,

Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold

If thou would'st take it now.