Emily Dickinson

More Life—went out—when He went

422
 
More Life—went out—when He went
Than Ordinary Breath—
Lit with a finer Phosphor—
Requiring in the Quench—
 
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live—
 
For some—an Ampler Zero—
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
 
Others—extinguish easier—
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen—
 
Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists—
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose—
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