Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series One by Emily Dickinson
page 73 of 92 (79%)
page 73 of 92 (79%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
XII.
REAL. I like a look of agony, Because I know it 's true; Men do not sham convulsion, Nor simulate a throe. The eyes glaze once, and that is death. Impossible to feign The beads upon the forehead By homely anguish strung. XIII. THE FUNERAL. That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious 'T is almost consequence, Is the eclat of death. Oh, thou unknown renown That not a beggar would accept, Had he the power to spurn! |
|