That Odd Old Man Is Dead A Year-

Emily Dickinson

1130

That odd old man is dead a year—
We miss his stated Hat.
’Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.

Who miss his antiquated Wick—
Are any hoar for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?

Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee—
Feels transitive and cool.

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