OF Death the sharpest function
OF Death the sharpest function, / That, just as we discern,
On this long storm the rainbow rose
❦
On this long storm the rainbow rose,
On this late morn the sun;
The clouds, like listless elephants,
Horizons straggled down.
The birds rose smiling in their nests,
The gales indeed were done;
Alas! how heedless were the eyes
On whom the summer shone!
The quiet nonchalance of death
No daybreak can bestir;
The slow archangel's syllables
Must awaken her.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
PROBLEMS - Bring me the sunset in a cup
Bring me the sunset in a cup, / Reckon the morning's flagons up,
A LITTLE madness in the Spring
A LITTLE madness in the Spring / Is wholesome even for the King,
GRIEFS - I measure every grief I meet
I measure every grief I meet / With analytic eyes;