Eyes glinting in a cat, the stairs
Run on to my feet;
The door gapes wide before my eyes...
And suddenly I freeze
For through the yellow flash of light
Something slips into the night
Like smoke, an apparition grey
Descends with silent tread,
And as I turn to run away
Looms into my head
Filling me with ash and bone,
Burning in my breast,
And I, a monument of stone,
Am slowly laid to rest.
Yes! This speaks of her style and definitely as good as. Thoroughly enjoyed myself.
A lot of this poem is worthy of Emily Dickenson, in my opinion. I mean, kindred in style and *as good as*. I'm not precisely certain what happens (onset of sleep?) , but I have to confess, I'm not always sure after reading one of Emily's, either.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This one left me confused