Poetry

by Emily Dickenson

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 Serves 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 privilage

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 were 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 no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

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-