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ClassicsEmily Dickinson
445 ’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—
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Twas just this time, last year, I died
445 ’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
Classics
Emily Dickinson
1830 - 1886/Female/American