Let down the bars, O Death

❦

Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.

Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you? / Are you nobody, too?

Death is a dialogue between / The spirit and the dust.

The mushroom is the elf of plants, / At evening it is not;

'T was a long parting, but the time / For interview had come;