Emily Dickinson (10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)
It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did
It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did—
I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "Dead."
Put it in Latin—left of my school—
Seems it don't shriek so—under rule.
Turn it, a little—full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest—
Say "When Tomorrow comes this way—
I shall have waded down one Day."
I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb
Like other new Things—shows largest—then—
And smaller, by Habit—
It's shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance—a Year—
How like "a fit"—then—
Poet Other Poems
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- "Heaven" has different Signs—to me
- "Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
- "Hope" is the thing with feathers
- "Houses"—so the Wise Men tell me
- "I want"—it pleaded—All its ...
- "Morning"—means "Milking"—to...
- "Nature" is what we see
- "Unto Me?" I do not know you
- "Why do I love" You, Sir?
- A Bird Came Down
- A Book
- A Burdock—clawed my Gown
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