Conceive me as a dream of stone:
    my breast, where mortals come to grief,
    is made to prompt the poet’s love,
    mute and noble as matter itself.

    With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
    I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
    begrudging acts that alter forms;
    I never laugh, I never weep.

    In studious awe the poet broods
    before my monumental pose
    aped from the proudest pedestal,
    and to bind this docile lover fast
    I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:
    the untenable light of my infernal eyes.

Emily Dickinson's axiom
Emily Dickinson's Axiom...