’Twas comfort in her Dying Room, by Emily Dickinson

’Twas comfort in her Dying Room

To hear the living Clock—

A short relief to have the wind

Walk boldly up and knock—

Diversion from the Dying Theme

To hear the children play—

But wrong the more

That these could live

And this of ours must die.

A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…

A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard— Till morning touching mountain—

100 A science—so the Savants say, “Comparative Anatomy”— By which a single bone— Is made a secret to unfold

203 He forgot—and I—remembered— ’Twas an everyday affair— Long ago as Christ and Peter— “Warmed them” at the “Temple fire…

241 I like a look of Agony, Because I know it’s true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe—

917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—

A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—

The inundation of the Spring Enlarges every soul - It sweeps the tenement away But leaves the Water whole - In which the soul at first estrang…

That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power

517 He parts Himself—like Leaves— And then—He closes up— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup—

672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—

75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn

329 So glad we are—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear—

831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot

A still – Volcano – Life – That flickered in the night – When it was dark enough to do Without erasing sight – A quiet – Earthquake Style –