Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 8
Chapter 94 of 146 · 1 min read
I have not told my garden yet, Lest that should conquer me; I have not quite the strength now To break it to the bee.
I will not name it in the street, For shops would stare, that I, So shy, so very ignorant, Should have the face to die.
The hillsides must not know it, Where I have rambled so, Nor tell the loving forests The day that I shall go,
Nor lisp it at the table, Nor heedless by the way Hint that within the riddle One will walk to-day!
IX.
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.
They perished in the seamless grass, — No eye could find the place; But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.
