Love—is that later Thing than Death—
More previous—than Life—
Confirms it at its entrance—And
Usurps it—of itself—
Tastes Death—the first—to hand the sting
The Second—to its friend—
Disarms the little interval—
Deposits Him with God—
Then hovers—an inferior Guard—
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need—once in an Eternity—
A smaller than the Large—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Rose Did Caper On Her Cheek
- The World&Mdash;Feels Dusty
- Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread
- So Proud She Was To Die
- The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret!