Her lyrics
by Emily Dickinson
312
Her—"last Poems"
Poets—ended
Silver—perished—with her Tongue
Not on Record—bubbled other
Flute—or Woman
So divine
Not unto its Summer—Morning
Robin—uttered Half the Tune
Gushed too free for the Adoring
From the Anglo-Florentine
Late—the Praise
'Tis dull—conferring
On the Head too High to Crown
Diadem—or Ducal Showing
Be its Grave—sufficient sign
Nought—that We—No Poet's Kinsman
Suffocate—with easy woe
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom
Put Her down—in Italy?