Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 29
Chapter 104 of 146 · 1 min read
GHOSTS.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one's own self encounter In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O'erlooking a superior spectre More near.
XXX.
VANISHED.
She died, — this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
