Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death, The Spirit “Sir I have another Trust” - Death doubts it - Argues from th… - Emily Dickinson

Death is a dialogue
between the spirit and the dust

The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more —

A Clock Stopped — Not The Mantel's

A clock stopped — not the mantel's
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.

I think I was enchanted
When first a sombre Girl — I read that Foreign Lady** — The Dark — felt beautiful — And whether it was noon at night — Or only Heaven — at Noon — For very Lunacy of Light
I had not power to tell — The Bees — became as Butterflies — The Butterflies — as Swans — Approached — and spurned the narrow Grass — And just the meanest Tunes

That Nature murmured to herself
To keep herself in Cheer — I took for Giants — practising
Titanic Opera — The Days — to Mighty Metres stept — The Homeliest — adorned
As if unto a Jubilee
'Twere suddenly confirmed — I could not have defined the change — Conversion of the Mind
Like Sanctifying in the Soul — Is witnessed — not explained — 'Twas a Divine Insanity — The Danger to be Sane
Should I again experience — 'Tis Antidote to turn — To Tomes of solid Witchcraft — Magicians be asleep — But Magic — hath an Element
Like Deity — to keep —