Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Dying

The sun kept setting, setting still;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived, --
From house to house 't was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
'T is dying, I am doing; but
I'm not afraid to know.

1. A Poor Torn Heart, a Tattered Heart
2. Delight Becomes Pictorial
3. A Thought Went up My Mind To-day
4. Too Much
5. The Show

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