Emily Dickinson

Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things

poem 607

Of nearness to her sundered Things The Soul has special times When Dimness looks the Oddity Distinctness easy se ems The Shapes we buried, dwell about, Familiar, in the Rooms Untarnished by the Sepulchre, The Mouldering Playmate comes In just the Jacket that he wore Long buttoned in the Mold Since we old mornings, Children played Divided by a world The Grave yields back her Robberies The Years, our pilfered Things Bright Knots of Apparitions Salute us, with their wings As we it were that perished Themself had just remained till we rejoin them And ’twas they, and not ourself That mourned.

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