POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
And echoes, trains away,Sneer—“Where?”While the old couple, just astir.Think that the sunrise left the door ajar!
XVI
TO fight aloud is very brave,But gallanter, I know,Who charge within the bosom,The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,Who fall, and none observe,Whose dying eyes no countryRegards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,For such the angels go,Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow.
XVII
WHEN night is almost done,And sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the spaces,It’s time to smooth the hair
And get the dimples ready,And wonder we could careFor that old faded midnightThat frightened but an hour.
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