Some (precious little) comfort

I spent a couple of hours yesterday evening at the college in town, where the kids had rehearsal for their play after dinner. I listened to the muffled sound of a janitor's vacuum cleaner, students whispering over their homework, far-off children singing and shouting, and thought about the events of the day which, really, could have happened anywhere.

No. 419
by Emily Dickinson
c1862

We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye —

A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —

And so of larger — Darknesses —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out — within —

The Bravest — grope a little —
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead —
But as they learn to see —

Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.