88
As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear—
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here—
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize
Vast—in its fading ration
To our penurious eyes!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Autumn&Mdash;Overlooked My Knitting
- A Great Hope Fell
- Don'T Put Up My Thread And Needle
- First Robin
- From Cocoon Forth A Butterfly