Dust is the only Secret —
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his “native town.”
Nobody know “his Father” —
Never was a Boy —
Hadn’t any playmates,
Or “Early history” —
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest —
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
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This poem is one of my favorite’s by E. Dickinson. She’s an amazing poet and this poem proves so with her ability to put herself in that position. Her off-rhymes and awkward similies are what make her the wonderful writer that she is.