Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 21
Chapter 100 of 146 · 1 min read
If anybody's friend be dead, It 's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive, At such and such a time.
Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the hair, — A prank nobody knew but them, Lost, in the sepulchre.
How warm they were on such a day: You almost feel the date, So short way off it seems; and now, They 're centuries from that.
How pleased they were at what you said; You try to touch the smile, And dip your fingers in the frost: When was it, can you tell,
You asked the company to tea, Acquaintance, just a few, And chatted close with this grand thing That don't remember you?
Past bows and invitations, Past interview, and vow, Past what ourselves can estimate, — That makes the quick of woe!
XXII.
THE JOURNEY.
Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being's road, Eternity by term.
Our pace took sudden awe, Our feet reluctant led. Before were cities, but between, The forest of the dead.
Retreat was out of hope, — Behind, a sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate.
XXIII.
A COUNTRY BURIAL.
Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair.
Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise' yellow noise Interrupt this ground.
