Treasure Island

Emily Dickinson

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

'Twas warm—at first—like Us


519

'Twas warm—at first—like Us—
Until there crept upon
A Chill—like frost upon a Glass—
Till all the scene—be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone—
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache—and like a Skater's Brook—
The busy eyes—congealed—

It straightened—that was all—
It crowded Cold to Cold—
It multiplied indifference—
As Pride were all it could—

And even when with Cords—
'Twas lowered, like a Weight—
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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  • Nick Capozzoli (1/7/2008 1:38:00 AM)

    The second stanza is an appalling description of death.. Compare this poem to WC Williams 'To a Dead Journalist.' (Report) Reply

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