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—
Emily Dickinson's Other Poems
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