Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- If This Is "Fading"
- It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature
- When We Stand On The Tops Of Things
- Not All Die Early, Dying Young
- The Soul's Distinct Connection
