Emily Dickinson

Tis So Appalling It Exhilarates

poem 281

‘Tis so appalling it exhilarates So over Horror, it half Captivates The Soul stares after it, secure A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more To scan a Ghost, is faint But grappling, conquers it How easy, Torment, now Suspense kept sawing so The Truth, is Bald, and Cold But that will hold If any are not sure We show them prayer But we, who know, Stop hoping, now Looking at Death, is Dying Just let go the Breath And not the pillow at your Cheek So Slumbereth Others, Can wrestle Yours, is done And so of Woe, bleak dreaded come, It sets the Fright at liberty And Terror’s free Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

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