Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/63

 XII.

IN VAIN.

CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to, Putting up Our life, his porcelain, Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife, Quaint or broken; A new Sèvres pleases, Old ones crack.

I could not die with you, For one must wait To shut the other's gaze down,— You could not.