First print Life XIII, 13
J poem 303 | Fr poem 409
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nation
Then close the valves of her attention
The text may be used under any of the following licenses:
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE 4.0,
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE BY-SA 3.0,
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE 2.5.
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