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.
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