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. A Shady Friend for Torrid Days
2. The Goal
3. Sight
4. The Thought Beneath So Slight a Film
5. Portraits Are to Daily Faces

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

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