POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,Or what the distant sayAt news that he ceased human natureOn such a day?
And wishes, had he any?Just his sigh, accented,Had been legible to me.And was he confident untilIll fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best,What first,What one broke off withAt the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil?Might he knowHow conscious consciousness could grow,Till love that was, and love too blest to be,Meet—and the junction be Eternity?
XX
THE last night that she lived,It was a common night,Except the dying; this to usMade nature different.
We noticed smallest things,—Things overlooked before,By this great light upon our mindsItalicized, as’t were.
