large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb_61
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_4_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
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. 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
 behind Since that appalling day! XI. Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, -- Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold. Never the treasures 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. 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. F WAS SHY AND GOD FORBID I LOOK BEHIND SINCE THAT APPALLING DAY ELEVEN SOME TOO FRAGILE FOR WINTER WINDS THE THOUGHTFUL GRAVE ENCLOSES TENDERLY TUCKING THEM IN FROM FROST BEFORE THEIR FEET ARE COLD NEVER THE TREASURES 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
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