His Bill Is Clasped-his Eye Forsook-

Emily Dickinson

1102

His Bill is clasped—his Eye forsook—
His Feathers wilted low—
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now—
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged mind
The firing in Heaven,
On Angels—squandering for you
Their Miracles of Tune—

Next 10 Poems

• 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
• Emily Dickinson : His Oriental Heresies
• Emily Dickinson : His Voice Decrepit Was With Joy-
• Emily Dickinson : Hope Is A Strange Invention-

Previous 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : His Bill An Auger Is
• Emily Dickinson : High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
• Emily Dickinson : Her-'last 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