Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

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. Superiority to Fate
2. Hope (Hope is a subtle glutton)
3. The Forgotten Grave
4. Forbidden Fruit. I
5. I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise

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