By a departing light
We see acuter, quite,
Than by a wick that stays.
There’s something in the flight
That clarifies the sight
And decks the rays.

(Emily Dickinson)

Not with a club the heart is broken
Nor with a stone
A whip, so small you could not see it, 
I’ve known
To lash the magic creature
Till it fell
Yet that whips name too noble
Then to tell

Magnanimous of bird
By boy descried 
To sing unto the stone
Of which it died