Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear,
As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, --

In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes!

1. There Is a Shame of Nobleness
2. Till the End
3. The Battle-Field
4. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds
5. I Went to Heaven

Print

1592 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version