POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Might some one else so learned be,
And leave me just my A B C,
Himself could have the skies.
And leave me just my A B C,
Himself could have the skies.
XXII
THE bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,—
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,—
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
XXIII
I REASON, earth is short,
And anguish absolute.
And many hurt;
But what of that?
And anguish absolute.
And many hurt;
But what of that?
I reason, we could die:
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?
I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?
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