Promise This-when You Be Dying
Emily Dickinson
648 Promise This—When You be Dying— Some shall summon Me— Mine belong Your latest Sighing— Mine—to Belt Your Eye— Not with Coins—though they be Minted From an Emperor’s Hand— Be my lips—the only Buckle Your low Eyes—demand— Mine to stay—when all have wandered— To devise once more If the Life be too surrendered— Life of Mine—restore— Poured like this—My Whole Libation— Just that You should see Bliss of Death—Life’s Bliss extol thro’ Imitating You— Mine—to guard Your Narrow Precinct— To seduce the Sun Longest on Your South, to linger, Largest Dews of Morn To demand, in Your low favor Lest the Jealous Grass Greener lean—Or fonder cluster Round some other face— Mine to supplicate Madonna— If Madonna be Could behold so far a Creature— Christ—omitted—Me— Just to follow Your dear future— Ne’er so far behind— For My Heaven— Had I not been Most enough—denied?
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