POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet—and the junction be Eternity?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet—and the junction be Eternity?
XX
THE last night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.
We noticed smallest things,—
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as’t were.
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as’t were.
