To know just how He suffered—would be dear—, by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

To know just how He suffered—would be dear—

622

To know just how He suffered—would be dear—

To know if any Human eyes were near

To whom He could entrust His wavering gaze—

Until it settle broad—on Paradise—

To know if He was patient—part content—

Was Dying as He thought—or different—

Was it a pleasant Day to die—

And did the Sunshine face his way—

What was His furthest mind—Of Home—or God—

Or what the Distant say—

At news that He ceased Human Nature

Such a Day—

And Wishes—Had He Any—

Just His Sigh—Accented—

Had been legible—to Me—

And was He Confident until

Ill fluttered out—in Everlasting Well—

And if He spoke—What name was Best—

What last

What One broke off with

At the Drowsiest—

Was He afraid—or tranquil—

Might He know

How Conscious Consciousness—could grow—

Till Love that was—and Love too best to be—

Meet—and the Junction be Eternity

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Emily Dickinson

To know just how He suffered—would be dear—

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