by Emily Dickinson
| I cannot live with You - |
| It would be Life - |
| And Life is over there - |
| Behind the Shelf |
| The Sexton keeps the Key to - |
| Putting up |
| Our Life – His porcelain - |
| Like a Cup - |
| Discarded of the Housewife - |
| Quaint – or Broke - |
| A newer Sevres pleases - |
| Old Ones crack - |
| I could not die- with You - |
| For One must wait |
| To shut the Other’s Gaze down - |
| You – could not - |
| And I – Could I stand by |
| And see You – freeze - |
| Without my Right of Frost - |
| Death’s privilege? |
| Nor could I rise – with You - |
| Because Your Face |
| Would put out Jesus’ - |
| That New Grace |
| Glow plain – and foreign |
| On my homesick Eye - |
| Except that You than He |
| Shone closer by - |
| They’d judge Us – How - |
| For You – served Heaven – You know, |
| Or sought to - |
| I could not - |
| Because You saturated Sight - |
| And I had not more Eyes |
| For sordid excellence |
| As Paradise |
| And were You lost, I would be - |
| Though My Name |
| Rang loudest |
| On the Heavenly fame - |
| And were You – saved - |
| And I – condemned to be |
| Where You were not - |
| That self – were Hell to Me - |
| So We must meet apart - |
| You there – I – here - |
| With just the Door ajar |
| That Oceans are – and Prayer - |
| And that White Sustenance - |
| Despair - |
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