Have you got a book in your little heart. Where bashful flowers blow, and blushing birds go down to drink, and shadows tremble so? Nobody knows still it flows, the brrok is still there; and yet your little drought of life is daily drunken there. Then look out for that little brook in March, hen the rivers overflow, and the snow comes hurrying from the hills. The bridges often go and later, in August it may be, when the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life....Some burning noon go dry!
_Emily Dickinson_
