We grow accustomed to the Dark—

When Light is put away—

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye——

A Moment—We uncertain stop

For newness of the night—

Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—

And meet the Road—erect——

And so of larger—Darknesses—

Those Evenings of the Brain—

When not a Moon disclose a sign—

Or star—come out—within——

The Bravest—grope a little—

And sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead—

But as they learn to see—

Either the darkness alters—

Or sometimes in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight—

And Life steps almost straight.

Emily Dickinson: 419