Joy to have merited the pain
To merit the release.
Joy to have perished every step
To compass thee at last.
Pardon to look upon thy face
With these old-fashioned eyes—
Better than new could be, for that,
Tho’ bought in Paradise—
Because they looked on thee before
And thou hadst looked on them—
Prove me, my hazel witnesses,
The features are the same.
So fleet thou wert when present,
So infinite when gone—
An Orient’s apparition
Remanded of the morn.
The height I recollect
‘Twas ever with the hills,
The depth upon my soul
Was notched
As floods on whites of wheels.
To haunt till Time has
Dropped
His slow decade away,
And haunting actualize
To last
At least, Eternity.
Read all of Emily Dickinson's poems · About Emily Dickinson
More by Emily Dickinson
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog