Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/182

 1 68 POEMS.

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T FELT a funeral in my brain,

And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,

A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought

My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul

With those same boots of lead, again. Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,

And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race,

Wrecked, solitary, here.

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