The Birds Reported From The South
Emily Dickinson
743 The Birds reported from the South— A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today— The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng— I reinforced the Door— Go blossom for the Bees—I said— And trouble Me—no More— The Summer Grace, for Notice strove— Remote—Her best Array— The Heart—to stimulate the Eye Refused too utterly— At length, a Mourner, like Myself, She drew away austere— Her frosts to ponder—then it was I recollected Her— She suffered Me, for I had mourned— I offered Her no word— My Witness—was the Crape I bore— Her—Witness—was Her Dead— Thenceforward—We—together dwelt— I never questioned Her— Our Contract A Wiser Sympathy
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