Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

Morns like these we parted;
Noons like these she rose,
Fluttering first, then firmer,
To her fair repose.

Never did she lisp it,
And 't was not for me;
She was mute from transport,
I, from agony!

Till the evening, nearing,
One the shutters drew --
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!

1. There Is a Shame of Nobleness
2. Till the End
3. The Battle-Field
4. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds
5. As by the Dead We Love to Sit

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