Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 The last night that she lived, It was a common night, Except the dying; this to us Made nature different. 
 We noticed smallest things, - Things overlooked before, By this great light upon our minds Italicized, as 't were. 
 That others could exist While she must finish quite, A jealousy for her arose So nearly infinite. 
 We waited while she passed; It was a narrow time, Too jostled were our souls to speak, At length the notice came. 
 She mentioned, and forgot; Then lightly as a reed Bent to the water, shivered scarce, Consented, and was dead. 
 And we, we placed the hair, And drew the head erect; And then an awful leisure was, Our faith to regulate.