Dust is the only Secret —
by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) English
Dust is the only Secret —
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his "native town."
Nobody know "his Father" —
Never was a Boy —
Hadn't any playmates,
Or "Early history" —
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest —
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
More poems by Emily Dickinson
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Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— …
-
There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — …
-
A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil …
-
There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …
All poems by Emily Dickinson →