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.