Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 12
Chapter 135 of 146 · 1 min read
How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account Have settled with the year! — Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality, Bequeaths him to the night. In deference to him Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!
XIII.
DEATH.
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be.
Bait it with the balsam, Seek it with the knife, Baffle, if it cost you Everything in life.
Then, if it have burrowed Out of reach of skill, Ring the tree and leave it, — 'T is the vermin's will.
