Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||
204
[XXI. If anybody's friend be dead]
If anybody's friend be dead,
It 's sharpest of the theme
The thinking how they walked alive,
At such and such a time.
It 's sharpest of the theme
The thinking how they walked alive,
At such and such a time.
Their costume, of a Sunday,
Some manner of the hair,—
A prank nobody knew but them,
Lost, in the sepulchre.
Some manner of the hair,—
A prank nobody knew but them,
Lost, in the sepulchre.
How warm they were on such a day:
You almost feel the date,
So short way off it seems; and now,
They 're centuries from that.
You almost feel the date,
So short way off it seems; and now,
They 're centuries from that.
How pleased they were at what you said;
You try to touch the smile,
And dip your fingers in the frost:
When was it, can you tell,
You try to touch the smile,
And dip your fingers in the frost:
When was it, can you tell,
205
You asked the company to tea,
Acquaintance, just a few,
And chatted close with this grand thing
That don't remember you?
Acquaintance, just a few,
And chatted close with this grand thing
That don't remember you?
Past bows and invitations,
Past interview, and vow,
Past what ourselves can estimate,—
That makes the quick of woe!
Past interview, and vow,
Past what ourselves can estimate,—
That makes the quick of woe!
Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||