An Emily Dickinson Poem

In many and reportless places
We feel a Joy --
Reportless, also, but sincere as Nature
Or Deity --

It comes, without a consternation --
Dissolves -- the same --
But leaves a sumptuous Destitution --
Without a Name --

Profane it by a search -- we cannot
It has no home --
Nor we who having once inhaled it --
Thereafter roam.