Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XII

 How dare the robins sing,   When men and women hear Who since they went to their account   Have settled with the year! - Paid all that life had earned   In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do   Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun   To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality,   Bequeaths him to the night. In deference to him   Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew,   At daybreak overcome!