To Emily Dickinson

You who desired so much--in vain to ask-- Yet fed you hunger like an endless task, Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest-- Achieved that stillness ultimately best, Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear! O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear When singing that Eternity possessed And plundered momently in every breast; --Truly no flower yet withers in your hand. The harvest you descried and understand Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind. Some reconcilement of remotest mind-- Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill. Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.