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592 What care the Dead, for Chanticleer— What care the Dead for Day? 'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face— And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning Pour as blank on them As on the Tier of Wall The Mason builded, yesterday, And equally as cool— What care the Dead for Summer? The Solstice had no Sun Could waste the Snow before their Gate— And knew One Bird a Tune— Could thrill their Mortised Ear Of all the Birds that be— This One—beloved of Mankind Henceforward cherished be— What care the Dead for Winter? Themselves as easy freeze— June Noon—as January Night— As soon the South—her Breeze Of Sycamore—or Cinnamon— Deposit in a Stone And put a Stone to keep it Warm— Give Spices—unto Men—
Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:51 PM | Viewed: 7889 times
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Emily Dickinson
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