 | Poems by Emily Dickinson |  |
145
XXXIII.
ALONG THE POTOMAC.
When I was small, a woman died.
To-day her only boy
Went up from the Potomac,
His face all victory,
To-day her only boy
Went up from the Potomac,
His face all victory,
To look at her; how slowly
The seasons must have turned
Till bullets clipt an angle,
And he passed quickly round!
The seasons must have turned
Till bullets clipt an angle,
And he passed quickly round!
If pride shall be in Paradise
I never can decide;
Of their imperial conduct,
No person testified.
I never can decide;
Of their imperial conduct,
No person testified.
But proud in apparition,
That woman and her boy
Pass back and forth before my brain,
As ever in the sky.
That woman and her boy
Pass back and forth before my brain,
As ever in the sky.
| Poems by Emily Dickinson | |