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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXX
Waiting

XXXI

I meant to find her when I came;
  Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
  And the discomfit mine.
I meant to tell her how I longed
  For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
  And she had hearkened him.
To wander now is my abode;
  To rest, — to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
  To memory and me.