THE sun kept setting, setting still;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived —
From house to house, ’t was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.
My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make?
How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
’T is dying, I am doing; but
I’m not afraid to know.
First print Time and Eternity XXV, 25
Johnson 692 | Franklin 715
■→Poems, first print by Higginson and Todd, page 136;
Dash alone for thematic development, cf. ■→Notes, for The Outlet.
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
The world may never have seen her original handwriting, if her skill was taken for supernatural. Feel welcome to Poems by Emily Dickinson prepared for print by Teresa Pelka: thematic stanzas, notes on the Greek and Latin inspiration, the correlative with Webster 1828, and the Aristotelian motif, Things perpetual — these are not in time, but in eternity.