Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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Let down the Bàrs, Oh Deàth -
The tired Flocks come in
Whose bleàting ceàses to repeàt
Whose wàndering is done -

Thine is the stillest night
Thine the securest Fold
Too neàr Thou àrt for seeking Thee
Too tender, to be told.

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

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