I meant to find her when I came;
Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
And the discomfit mine.
I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.
To wander now is my abode;
To rest,--to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Face I Carry With Me—last
- I Tie My Hat—i Crease My Shawl
- How Noteless Men, And Pleiads, Stand
- The Fingers Of The Light
- To Hear An Oriole Sing