163 <br /> <br />Tho' my destiny be Fustian— <br />Hers be damask fine— <br />Tho' she wear a silver apron— <br />I, a less divine— <br /> <br />Still, my little Gypsy being <br />I would far prefer, <br />Still, my little sunburnt bosom <br />To her Rosier, <br /> <br />For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers <br />On her forehead lay, <br />You and I, and Dr. Holland, <br />Bloom Eternally! <br /> <br />Roses of a steadfast summer <br />In a steadfast land, <br />Where no Autumn lifts her pencil— <br />And no Reapers stand!<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tho-my-destiny-be-fustian/
