Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXXI

 I meant to find her when I came;   Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems,   And the discomfit mine. 
 I meant to tell her how I longed   For just this single time; But Death had told her so the first,   And she had hearkened him. 
 To wander now is my abode;   To rest, - to rest would be A privilege of hurricane   To memory and me.