Emily Dickinson Poems

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'Twas warm -- at first -- like Us --
Until there crept upon
A Chill -- like frost upon a Glass --
Till all the scene -- be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone --
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache -- and like a Skater's Brook --
The busy eyes -- congealed --

It straightened -- that was all --
It crowded Cold to Cold --
It multiplied indifference --
As Pride were all it could --

And even when with Cords --
'Twas lowered, like a Weight --
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

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