By Emily Dickenson

He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow
By faint hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to strighten,
Your brain to bubble cool, –
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.