Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With "This was last her fingers did,"
Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then 't was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him,-
At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.
- Poem by Emily Dickinson
All But Death Can Be Adjusted
All but Death, can be Adjusted-
Dynasties repaired-
Systems-settled in their Sockets-
Citadels-dissolved-
Wastes of Lives-resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs-
Deat-unto itself-Exception-
Is exempt from Change-
Emily Dickinson
Unit, Like Death, For Whom?
Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him-
The Grave is strict-
Tickets admit
Just two-the Bearer-
And the Borne-
And seat-just One-
The Living-tell-
The Dying—but a Syllable-
The Coy Dead-None-
No Chatter-here-no tea-
So Babbler, and Bohea-stay there-
But Gravity-and Expectation-and Fear-
A tremor just, that All’s not sure.
Emily Dickinson
Shun death,
is my advice.
- Quote by Robert Browning
ROMANTIC
