So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed.
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be,
Immediately, that anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret!
- I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes"
- Knows How To Forget!
- There Is A Word
- She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms,