VANISHED

❦

She died, -- this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

My worthiness is all my doubt, / His merit all my fear,

I SEE thee better in the dark, / I do not need a light.

PERCEPTION of an / Object costs

One of the ones that Midas touched, / Who failed to touch us all,