Emily Dickinson

Her

poem 312

Her last Poems Poets ended Silver perished w ith her Tongue Not on Record bubbled other, Flute or Woman So divine Not unto its Summer Morning Robin uttered Half the Tune Gushed too free for the Adoring From the Anglo-Florentine Late the Praise ‘Tis dull conferring On the Head too High to Crown Diadem or Ducal Showing Be its Grave sufficient sign Nought that We No Poet’s Kinsman Suffocate with easy woe What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom Put Her down in Italy?

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