THE SHELTER - The body grows outside

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The body grows outside, --
The more convenient way, --
That if the spirit like to hide,
Its temple stands alway

Ajar, secure, inviting;
It never did betray
The soul that asked its shelter
In timid honesty.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him -- / Tell him the page I didn't write;

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

TO pile like Thunder to its close, / Then crumble grand away,

I'm wife; I've finished that, / That other state;