large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb_13
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
XIV. I went to heaven,    'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society. FOURTEEN I WENT TO HEAVEN TWAS A SMALL TOWN LIT WITH A RUBY LATHED WITH DOWN STILLER THAN THE FIELDS AT THE FULL DEW BEAUTIFUL AS PICTURES NO MAN DREW PEOPLE LIKE THE MOTH OF MECHLIN FRAMES DUTIES OF GOSSAMER AND EIDER NAMES ALMOST CONTENTED I COULD BE MONG SUCH UNIQUE SOCIETY
s, Building where schoolboy dare not look And sportsman is not bold. This covert have all the children Early aged, and often cold, -- Sparrows unnoticed by the Father; Lambs for whom time had not a fold. XII. As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here, -- In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes! XIII. MEMORIALS. Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves. A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, -- At rest his fingers are. Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs. S IN HER NEST THE CAUTIOUS GRAVE EXPOSES BUILDING WHERE SCHOOLBOY DARE NOT LOOK AND SPORTSMAN IS NOT BOLD THIS COVERT HAVE ALL THE CHILDREN EARLY AGED AND OFTEN COLD SPARROWS UNNOTICED BY THE FATHER LAMBS FOR WHOM TIME HAD NOT A FOLD TWELVE AS BY THE DEAD WE LOVE TO SIT BECOME SO WONDROUS DEAR AS FOR THE LOST WE GRAPPLE THOUGH ALL THE REST ARE HERE IN BROKEN MATHEMATICS WE ESTIMATE OUR PRIZE VAST IN ITS FADING RATIO TO OUR PENURIOUS EYES THIRTEEN MEMORIALS DEATH SETS A THING SIGNIFICANT THE EYE HAD HURRIED BY EXCEPT A PERISHED CREATURE ENTREAT US TENDERLY TO PONDER LITTLE WORKMANSHIPS IN CRAYON OR IN WOOL WITH THIS WAS LAST HER FINGERS DID INDUSTRIOUS UNTIL THE THIMBLE WEIGHED TOO HEAVY THE STITCHES STOPPED THEMSELVES AND THEN TWAS PUT AMONG THE DUST UPON THE CLOSET SHELVES A BOOK I HAVE A FRIEND GAVE WHOSE PENCIL HERE AND THERE HAD NOTCHED THE PLACE THAT PLEASED HIM AT REST HIS FINGERS ARE NOW WHEN I READ I READ NOT FOR INTERRUPTING TEARS OBLITERATE THE ETCHINGS TOO COSTLY FOR REPAIRS
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb
file
download/librilight/large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb.flac