I'm reading This Dirty Little Heart by Emily Dickinson.

I just finished writing fourteen pages of critiques for fllnthblnk, gaioumonbatou, atrue, and lovetodeviate, and since I’m too lazy to proofread them like I know I should, I decided to read some poetry instead. Considering the impending declarations of spelling and grammatical errors fated to be lobbied at me while I myself was talking about spelling and grammatical errors in the critiques, I’m surprisingly content with my decision. It could be the poem, though.


This dirty -- little -- Heart
Is freely mine.
I won it with a Bun --
A Freckled shrine --

But eligibly fair
To him who sees
The Visage of the Soul
And not the knees.