EMILY Dickinson is always elusive in her use of language as well as meaning.

Here, one guesses, she is talking of the man she loves, probably without hope.

OF ALL THE SOULS THAT STAND CREATE

Of all the souls that stand create

I have elected one.

When sense from spirit flies away,

And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was

Apart, intrinsic, stand,

And this brief tragedy of flesh

Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front

And mists are carved away,

Behold the atom I preferred

To all the lists of clay!