It might be lonelier. Emily Dickinson

It might be lonelier

Without the Loneliness—

I'm so accustomed to my Fate—

Perhaps the Other—Peace—

Would interrupt the Dark—

And crowd the little Room—

Too scant—by Cubits—to contain

The Sacrament—of Him—

I am not used to Hope—

It might intrude upon—

Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—

Ordained to Suffering—

It might be easier

To fail—with Land in Sight—

Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—

To perish—of Delight—