A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him –
The Grave is strict –
Tickets admit
Just two — the Bearer –
And the Borne –
And seat — just One –
The Living — tell –
The Dying — but a Syllable –
The Coy Dead — None –
No Chatter — here — no tea –
So Babbler, and Bohea — stay there –
But Gravity — and Expectation — and Fear –
A tremor just, that All’s not sure.
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A precious — mouldering pleasure — ’tis –
To meet an Antique Book –
In just the Dress his Century wore –
A privilege — I think –
His venerable Hand to take –
And warming in our own –
A passage back — or two — to make –
To Times when he — was young –
His quaint opinions — to inspect –
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind –
The Literature of Man –
What interested Scholars — most –
What Competitions ran –
When Plato — was a Certainty –
And Sophocles — a Man –
When Sappho — was a living Girl –
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified –
Facts Centuries before
He traverses — familiar –
As One should come to Town –
And tell you all your Dreams — were true –
He lived — where Dreams were born –
His presence is Enchantment –
You beg him not to go –
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize — just so –
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‘Tis not that Dying hurts us so –
‘Tis Living — hurts us more –
But Dying — is a different way –
A Kind behind the Door –
The Southern Custom — of the Bird –
That ere the Frosts are due –
Accepts a better Latitude –
We — are the Birds — that stay.
The Shrivers round Farmers’ doors –
For whose reluctant Crumb –
We stipulate — till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.
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