 | Poems by Emily Dickinson |  |
216
XXX.
VANISHED.
She died,—this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
| Poems by Emily Dickinson | |