Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 268

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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.

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.