Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 40

x.x.xVI.

TILL THE END.

I should not dare to leave my friend, Because -- because if he should die While I was gone, and I -- too late -- Should reach the heart that wanted me;

If I should disappoint the eyes That hunted, hunted so, to see, And could not bear to shut until They "noticed" me -- they noticed me;

If I should stab the patient faith So sure I 'd come -- so sure I 'd come, It listening, listening, went to sleep Telling my tardy name, --

My heart would wish it broke before, Since breaking then, since breaking then, Were useless as next morning's sun, Where midnight frosts had lain!

x.x.xVII.

VOID.

Great streets of silence led away To neighborhoods of pause; Here was no notice, no dissent, No universe, no laws.

By clocks 't was morning, and for night The bells at distance called; But epoch had no basis here, For period exhaled.

x.x.xVIII.

A throe upon the features A hurry in the breath, An ecstasy of parting Denominated "Death," --

An anguish at the mention, Which, when to patience grown, I 've known permission given To rejoin its own.

x.x.xIX.

SAVED!

Of tribulation these are they Denoted by the white; The spangled gowns, a lesser rank Of victors designate.

All these did conquer; but the ones Who overcame most times Wear nothing commoner than snow, No ornament but palms.

Surrender is a sort unknown On this superior soil; Defeat, an outgrown anguish, Remembered as the mile

Our panting ankle barely gained When night devoured the road; But we stood whispering in the house, And all we said was "Saved"!

XL.

I think just how my shape will rise When I shall be forgiven, Till hair and eyes and timid head Are out of sight, in heaven.

I think just how my lips will weigh With shapeless, quivering prayer That you, so late, consider me, The sparrow of your care.

I mind me that of anguish sent, Some drifts were moved away Before my simple bosom broke, -- And why not this, if they?

And so, until delirious borne I con that thing, -- "forgiven," -- Till with long fright and longer trust I drop my heart, unshriven!

XLI.

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.

After a hundred years n.o.body knows the place, -- Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.

Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead.

Winds of summer fields Recollect the way, -- Instinct picking up the key Dropped by memory.

XLII.

Lay this laurel on the one Too intrinsic for renown.

Laurel! veil your deathless tree, -- Him you chasten, that is he!

POEMS