Dying at my music!
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave's run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando! Phials left, and the Sun!
Emily Dickinson
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave's run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando! Phials left, and the Sun!
You can almost hear the piano being played at a feverish pitch. The speaker is utterly swept up in the act of making music, describing it as a kind of death — not a morbid end, but a dizzying, ecstatic release from ordinary life. Those repeated cries of “Bubble!
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