by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind. The vane a little to the east Scares muslin souls away; If broadcloth breasts are firmer Than those of organdy, Who is to blame? The weaver? Ah! the bewildering thread! The tapestries of paradise! So notelessly are made!