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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—
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:33 PM | Viewed: 7643 times
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Emily Dickinson
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