Observations placeholder

Emily Dickinson – from the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

‘Tis not that dying hurts us so
‘Tis living hurts us more
But dying is a different way
A kind behind the door

The southern custom of the bird
That ere the frosts are due
Accepts a better latitude
We are the birds that stay

The shiverers round farmers’ doors
For whose reluctant crumb
We stipulate till pitying snows
Persuade our feathers home

Emily Dickinson – from the Poems of Emily Dickinson

There’s something quieter than sleep
Within this inner room
It wears a sprig upon its breast
And will not tell its name

Some touch it and some kiss it
Some chafe its idle hand
It has a simple gravity
I do not understand

I would not weep if I were they
How rude in one to sob
Might scare the quiet fairy
Back to her native wood

While simple hearted neighbours
Chat of the early dead
We – prone to periphrasis
Remark that birds have fled