Emily Dickinson

Again His Voice Is At The Door

poem 663

Again his voice is at the door I feel the old Degree I hear him ask the servant For such an one as me I take a flower as I go My face to justify He never saw me in this life I might surprise his eye! I cross the Hall with mingled steps I silent pass the door I look on all this world contains Just his face nothing more! We talk in careless and it toss A kind of plummet strain Each sounding shyly Just how deep The other’s one had been We walk I leave my Dog at home A tender thoughtful Moon Goes with us just a little way And then we are alone Alone if Angels are alone First time they try the sky! Alone if those veiled faces be We cannot count on High! I’d give to live that hour again The purple in my Vein But He must count the drops himself My price for every stain!

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