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?
A quiet lady dies and is resurrected in glory.
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.
This is such a sad, beautiful poem.