Dear Emily
She whispers to me from afar;
Her distant strains I hear—
As I embrace each word and rhyme,
Her disquietude made clear.
For now and then she speaks of death,
Or a certain slant of light—
Of hope, the thing with feathers,
That she penned by candlelight.
Or what mystery pervades a well,
The exhilaration of a breeze—
Of the butterflies she saw at noon,
Or the Bible and the bees.
Her riches teach me poverty,
That to lose is sweeter gain—
That morning is the place for dew,
Or sometimes, even rain!
We eat and drink of precious words,
Of the light steps of a star—
Of spring’s impatient landscape;
How the soul should stand ajar.
Dear Emily, my dearest friend,
Will there a morning be?
For as I cannot stop for death,
He will kindly stop for me!
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