Emily Dickinson

She Bore It Till The Simple Veins

poem 144

She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand. Till Daffodils had come and gone I cannot tell the sum, And then she ceased to bear it And with the Saints sat down. No more her patient figure At twilight soft to meet No more her timid bonnet Upon the village street But Crowns instead, and Courtiers And in the midst so fair, Whose but her shy immortal face Of whom we’re whispering here?

Don't have an account?

You will be identified by the alias - name will be hidden
user