Emily Dickinson Poem

‘Twas just this time, last year, I died

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‘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—

'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch
'Twas awkward, but it fitted me


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