Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The Funeral

That short, potential stir
That each can make but once,
That bustle so illustrious
'T is almost consequence,

Is the eclat of death.
Oh, thou unknown renown
That not a beggar would accept,
Had he the power to spurn!

1. What Inn Is This
2. It Was Not Death, for I Stood up
3. A Throe upon the Features
4. Till the End
5. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds

John Donne The Funeral ("WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm")

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