Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Along the Potomac

 When I was small, a woman died. To-day her only boy Went up from the Potomac, His face all victory, 
 To look at her; how slowly The seasons must have turned Till bullets clipt an angle, And he passed quickly round! 
 If pride shall be in Paradise I never can decide; Of their imperial conduct, No person testified. 
 But proud in apparition, That woman and her boy Pass back and forth before my brain, As ever in the sky.