Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/153

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XXXIII.

ALONG THE POTOMAC.

When I was small, a woman died.
To-day her only boy
Went up from the Potomac,
His face all victory,

To look at her ;  how slowly
The seasons must have turned
Till bullets clipt an angle,
And he passed quickly round !

If pride shall be in Paradise
I never can decide ;
Of their imperial conduct,
No person testified.

But proud in apparition,
That woman and her boy
Pass back and forth before my brain,
As ever in the sky.

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