Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 59

x.x.xV.

So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed.

So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy.

x.x.xVI.

FAREWELL.

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord, Then I am ready to go!

Just a look at the horses -- Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side, So I shall never fall; For we must ride to the Judgment, And it's partly down hill.

But never I mind the bridges, And never I mind the sea; Held fast in everlasting race By my own choice and thee.

Good-by to the life I used to live, And the world I used to know; And kiss the hills for me, just once; Now I am ready to go!

x.x.xVII.

The dying need but little, dear, -- A gla.s.s of water's all, A flower's un.o.btrusive face To punctuate the wall,

A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret, And certainly that one No color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone.

x.x.xVIII.

DEAD.

There's something quieter than sleep Within this inner room!

It wears a sprig upon its breast, And will not tell its name.

Some touch it and some kiss it, Some chafe its idle hand; It has a simple gravity I do not understand!

While simple-hearted neighbors Chat of the 'early dead,'

We, p.r.o.ne to periphrasis, Remark that birds have fled!

x.x.xIX.

The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her.

Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.

XL.

Three weeks pa.s.sed since I had seen her, -- Some disease had vexed; 'T was with text and village singing I beheld her next,

And a company -- our pleasure To discourse alone; Gracious now to me as any, Gracious unto none.

Borne, without dissent of either, To the parish night; Of the separated people Which are out of sight?

XLI.

I breathed enough to learn the trick, And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well, That one, to be quite sure

The lungs are stirless, must descend Among the cunning cells, And touch the pantomime himself.

How cool the bellows feels!

XLII.

I wonder if the sepulchre Is not a lonesome way, When men and boys, and larks and June Go down the fields to hay!

XLIII.

JOY IN DEATH.