(no subject)
'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms -
It had the Tassels on -
I thought how yellow it would look -
When Richard went to mill -
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red - Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between -
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in -
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates -
To make an even Sum -
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me -
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year -
Themself, should come to me -
Emily Dickinson