Emily Dickinson Poems

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What care the Dead, for Chanticleer --
What care the Dead for Day?
'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face --
And Purple Ribaldry -- of Morning

Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool --

What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate --
And knew One Bird a Tune --

Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be --
This One -- beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be --

What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze --
June Noon -- as January Night --
As soon the South -- her Breeze

Of Sycamore -- or Cinnamon --
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm --
Give Spices -- unto Men --

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