Emily Dickinson

’Twas warm—at first—like Us—

519
 
’Twas warm—at first—like Us—
Until there crept upon
A Chill—like frost upon a Glass—
Till all the scene—be gone.
 
The Forehead copied stone—
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache—and like a Skater’s Brook—
The busy eyes—congealed—
 
It straightened—that was all—
It crowded Cold to Cold—
It multiplied indifference—
As Pride were all it could—
 
And even when with Cords—
’Twas lowered, like a Weight—
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.
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