Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

In Falling Timbers Buried - Poem by Emily Dickinson

614

In falling Timbers buried—
There breathed a Man—
Outside—the spades—were plying—
The Lungs—within—

Could He—know—they sought Him—
Could They—know—He breathed—
Horrid Sand Partition—
Neither—could be heard—

Never slacked the Diggers—
But when Spades had done—
Oh, Reward of Anguish,
It was dying—Then—

Many Things—are fruitless—
'Tis a Baffling Earth—
But there is no Gratitude
Like the Grace—of Death—


Comments about In Falling Timbers Buried by Emily Dickinson

  • Gold Star - 14,632 Points * Sunprincess * (4/1/2014 5:23:00 PM)

    Like the Grace—of Death—.......enjoyed this one... (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: death



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003



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