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. Love's Humility
2. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
3. Desire
4. Power
5. Is Bliss, Then, Such Abyss

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