Emily Dickinson

Wait Till The Majesty Of Death

poem 171

Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now! Wait till in Everlasting Robes That Democrat is dressed, Then prate about Preferment And Station, and the rest! Around this quiet Courtier Obsequious Angels wait! Full royal is his Retinue! Full purple is his state! A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat To such a Modest Clay Since that My Lord, the Lord of Lords Receives unblushingly!

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