Emily Dickinson

Nor Doubt of Scene to come,But an adjourning Heart –

And mourners meet it going outThe moment of our death.

No Apprehension of AnotherOh, Happy Air!Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast’s Pillow –Essential Host, in Life’s faint, wailing Inn,Later than Light thy Consciousness accost meTill it depart, persuading Mine –

Employed a Fact to visit meAnd scuttle my Balloon –

Said Passion, through contracting Breaths‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’Bore Death from PassionAll His EastHe – sovereign as the SunResituated in the WestAnd the Debate was done.

Amputate my freckled Bosom!Make me bearded like a man!Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness –Blush, my unacknowledged clay –Seven years of troth have taught theeMore than Wifehood every may!Love that never leaped its socket –Trust entrenched in narrow pain –Constancy thro’ fire – awarded –Anguish – bare of anodyne!Burden – borne so far triumphant –None…

Proud of my night, since thou, with moons, dos’t shake it.Not to partake thy passion, -my humilityThou can’st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companionWas the strong cup of anguish brewed for the NazareneThou can’st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture,See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!

My Caspian—thee.

And hasn’t any tax to payAnd hasn’t any HomeIs just as high as you and I,And higher, I believe,So soar away and never sighAnd that’s the way to grieve –

Then disappearedAs Birds before achievingA Latitude.Our Retrospection of ThemA fixed Delight,But our AnticipationA Dice—a Doubt—