390
It's coming—the postponeless Creature—
It gains the Block—and now—it gains the Door—
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings—
Enters—with a "You know Me—Sir"?
Simple Salute—and certain Recognition—
Bold—were it Enemy—Brief—were it friend—
Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle—
And carries one—out of it—to God—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- When We Stand On The Tops Of Things
- Not All Die Early, Dying Young
- The Soul's Distinct Connection
- The Doomed—regard The Sunrise
- I Rose—because He Sank
