Emily Dickinson

I Ment To Find Her When I Came;

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed For just this single time; But Death had told her so the first, And she had hearkened him. To wander now is my abode; To rest,–to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and me.

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