Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXXI

 There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes. 
 Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are. 
 None may teach it anything, ' T is the seal, despair, - An imperial affliction Sent us of the air. 
 When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, 't is like the distance On the look of death.