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. Contrast
2. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized
3. This Merit Hath the Worst
4. Who Robbed the Woods
5. Going to Heaven!

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