“Bailey,” she set her tea down on top of a glass case. “Calm down.”
He kept going on, gesturing with the snake as his voice rose in pitch. “You know, we could all be in danger, and we wouldn't even know it-”
“Calm down.” She grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to stop and look at her for a moment. The poor snake curled more securely around Bailey's hands in the moment.
--
I am very much in love with Emily Dickinson's 'The Soul selects her own Society' again. Mr. Reardon had no idea how perfect the poem was when he assigned it...
Poems take on such meaning and weight after analysis.
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