She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand —
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it —
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet —
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street —

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers —
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy — immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?

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3 Comments

  1. frumpo says:

    A quiet lady dies and is resurrected in glory.

  2. Stacy says:

    Wow, this is such a sad poem. This one is really very understandable when it comes to Dickinson’s poems but it is still beautiful and sad.

  3. Melissa says:

    This is such a sad, beautiful poem.

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