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607 Of nearness to her sundered Things The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—seems— The Shapes we buried, dwell about, Familiar, in the Rooms— Untarnished by the Sepulchre, The Mouldering Playmate comes— In just the Jacket that he wore— Long buttoned in the Mold Since we—old mornings, Children—played— Divided—by a world— The Grave yields back her Robberies— The Years, our pilfered Things— Bright Knots of Apparitions Salute us, with their wings— As we—it were—that perished— Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them— And 'twas they, and not ourself That mourned.
Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 5 Sep 2008 1:00 PM | Viewed: 4979 times
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Emily Dickinson
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