The World-feels Dusty
Emily Dickinson
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry— Flags—vex a Dying face— But the least Fan Stirred by a friend’s Hand— Cools—like the Rain— Mine be the Ministry When they Thirst comes— And Hybla Balms— Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—
Next 10 Poems
- Emily Dickinson : The World-stands-solemner-to Me
- Emily Dickinson : The Worthlessness Of Earthly Things
- Emily Dickinson : The Zeroes-taught Us-phosphorous
- Emily Dickinson : Their Barricade Against The Sky
- Emily Dickinson : Their Dappled Importunity
- Emily Dickinson : Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not
- Emily Dickinson : Themself Are All I Have-
- Emily Dickinson : There Are Two Ripenings-one-of Sight
- Emily Dickinson : There Came A Day At Summer's Full
- Emily Dickinson : There Came A Wind Like A Bugle-
Previous 10 Poems
- Emily Dickinson : The Work Of Her That Went
- Emily Dickinson : The Words The Happy Say
- Emily Dickinson : The Winters Are So Short
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind-tapped Like A Tired Man
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Trapped Like A Tired Man,
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Took Up The Northern Things
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Drew Off
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Didn't Come From The Orchard-today
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Begun To Rock The Grass
- Emily Dickinson : The Wind Begun To Knead The Grass
