VANISHED
She died, -- this was the way she died; / And when her breath was done,
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
❦
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place, --
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way, --
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
OF Death the sharpest function
OF Death the sharpest function, / That, just as we discern,
DYING
The sun kept setting, setting still; / No hue of afternoon
ALL circumstances are the frame
ALL circumstances are the frame / In which His Face is set,