Emily Dickinson

Those Fair fictitious People

poem 499

Those fair fictitious People The Women plucked away From our familiar Lifetime The Men of Ivory Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas Who stay upon the Wall In Everlasting Keepsake Can Anybody tell? We trust in places perfecter Inheriting Delight Beyond our faint Conjecture Our dizzy Estimate Remembering ourselves, we trust Yet Blesseder than We Through Knowing where We only hope Receiving where we pray Of Expectation also Anticipating us With transport, that would be a pain Except for Holiness Esteeming us as Exile Themself admitted Home Through easy Miracle of Death The Way ourself, must come

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