940
On that dear Frame the Years had worn
Yet precious as the House
In which We first experienced Light
The Witnessing, to Us—
Precious! It was conceiveless fair
As Hands the Grave had grimed
Should softly place within our own
Denying that they died.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Himmaleh Was Known To Stoop
- She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc
- What Shall I Do—it Whimpers So
- Death is like the insect
- Oh Shadow on the Grass
