"The Overtakelessness of Those Who have accomplished Death - Majestic is to me beyond The majesties of Earth - The Soul her "Not at Home" Inscribes u… - Emily Dickinson

I had no cause to be awake,
My best was gone to sleep,
And morn a new politeness took
And failed to wake them up,

But called the others clear, 5
And passed their curtains by.
Sweet morning, when I over-sleep,
Knock, recollect, for me!

I looked at sunrise once,
And then I looked at them, 10
And wishfulness in me arose
For circumstance the same.

’T was such an ample peace,
It could not hold a sigh, — ’T was Sabbath with the bells divorced,
’T was sunset all the day.

So choosing but a gown
And taking but a prayer,
The only raiment I should need,
I struggled, and was there.

We are the only poets,” Emily told Susan, “and everyone else is prose.

Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.

Its past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, — the disease
Not even God can heal;
For ’t is His institution, — The complement of hell.