Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly 
 To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until 
 The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves. 
 A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, - At rest his fingers are. 
 Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.