Of Death I try to think like this —
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us —
I do remember when a Child
With bolder Playmates straying
To where a Brook that seemed a Sea
Withheld us by its roaring
From just the Purple Flower beyond
Until constrained to clutch it
If Doom itself were the result,
The boldest leaped, and clutched it —
(Emily Dickinson)
More Poetry from Emily Dickinson:
- Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Sic transit gloria mundi (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- I cannot live with You (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- The Wind begun to knead the Grass (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- One Year ago-jots what? (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Your Riches - taugh (Emily Dickinson Poems)