Again—his voice is at the door

Emily Dickinson

663
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—
I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify
He never saw me—in this life
I might surprise his eye!
I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains
Just his face—nothing more!
We talk in careless—and it toss
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly—
Just—how—deep—
The other’s one—had been—
We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tenderthoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone
Alone—if Angels are “alone”—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those “veiled faces”—be—
We cannot count—on High!
I’d give—to live that hour—again
The purplein my Vein
But He must count the dropshimself
My price for every stain!

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