Her-'last Poems'
Emily Dickinson
312 Her—”last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other, Flute—or Woman— So divine— Not unto its Summer—Morning Robin—uttered Half the Tune— Gushed too free for the Adoring— From the Anglo-Florentine— Late—the Praise— ’Tis dull—conferring On the Head too High to Crown— Diadem—or Ducal Showing— Be its Grave—sufficient sign— Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman— Suffocate—with easy woe— What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom— Put Her down—in Italy?
Next 10 Poems
- Emily Dickinson : High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
- Emily Dickinson : His Bill An Auger Is
- Emily Dickinson : His Bill Is Clasped-his Eye Forsook-
- Emily Dickinson : His Cheek Is His Biographer-
- Emily Dickinson : His Feet Are Shod With Gauze
- Emily Dickinson : His Heart Was Darker Than The Starless Night
- Emily Dickinson : His Little Hearse Like Figure
- Emily Dickinson : His Mansion In The Pool
- Emily Dickinson : His Mind Like Fabrics Of The East
- Emily Dickinson : His Mind Of Man, A Secret Makes
Previous 10 Poems
- Emily Dickinson : Herein A Blossom Lies
- Emily Dickinson : Here, Where The Daisies Fit My Head
- Emily Dickinson : Her Sweet Weight On My Heart A Night
- Emily Dickinson : Her Sweet Turn To Leave The Homestead
- Emily Dickinson : Her Spirit Rose To Such A Height
- Emily Dickinson : Her Sovereign People
- Emily Dickinson : Her Smile Was Shaped Like Other Smiles
- Emily Dickinson : Her Losses Make Our Gains Ashamed-
- Emily Dickinson : Her Little Parasol To Lift
- Emily Dickinson : Her Grace Is All She Has-
