 | Poems by Emily Dickinson |  |
181
[I. Let down the bars, O Death]
Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
| Poems by Emily Dickinson | |