27
Morns like these—we parted—
Noons like these—she rose—
Fluttering first—then firmer
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it—
It was not for me—
She—was mute from transport—
I—from agony—
Till—the evening nearing
One the curtains drew—
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best
- Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned The Red
- None Can Experience Sting
- This Was In The White Of The Year
- It sounded as if the Streets were running