Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 13
Chapter 96 of 146 · 1 min read
MEMORIALS.
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, — At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.
XIV.
I went to heaven, — 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.
