Where I have lost, I softer tread —
I sow sweet flower from garden bed —
I pause above that vanished head
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word —
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
When I have lost, you’ll know by this —
A Bonnet black — A dusk surplice —
A little tremor in my voice Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
When people I love die, I mourn sadly in confusion. Saints a century ago were joyful.
i think this poem rolls hard
I love how this poem portrays the pain that Dickinson felt due to her recluse like lifestyle. and how she longed to be free of it.