If Anybody's Friend Be Dead
Emily Dickinson
509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive— At such and such a time— Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the Hair— A prank nobody knew but them Lost, in the Sepulchre— How warm, they were, on such a day, You almost feel the date— So short way off it seems— And now—they’re Centuries from that— How pleased they were, at what you said— You try to touch the smile And dip your fingers in the frost— When was it—Can you tell— You asked the Company to tea— Acquaintance—just a few— And chatted close with this Grand Thing That don’t remember you— Past Bows, and Invitations— Past Interview, and Vow— Past what Ourself can estimate— That—makes the Quick of Woe!
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