The minister goes stiffly in As if the house were his, And he owned all the mourners now, - Emily Dickinson

I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.

How dreary — to be — Somebody! How public — like a Frog — To tell one's name — the livelong June — To an admiring Bog!

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door — Red — is the Fire’s common tint — But when the vivid Ore

Has vanquished Flame’s conditions — It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the Light
Of unannointed Blaze — Least Village, boasts it’s Blacksmith — Whose Anvil’s even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs — within — Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the designated Light
Repudiate the Forge —