EMILY MONDAY

607

Of nearness to her sundered Things

The Soul has special times —

When Dimness — looks the Oddity —

Distinctness — easy — seems —

The Shapes we buried, dwell about,

Familiar, in the Rooms —

Untarnished by the Sepulchre,

The Mouldering Playmate comes —

In just the Jacket that he wore —

Long buttoned in the Mold

Since we — old mornings, Children — played —

Divided — by a world —

The Grave yields back her Robberies —

The Years, our pilfered Things —

Bright Knots of Apparitions

Salute us, with their wings —

As we — it were — that perished —

Themself — had just remained till we rejoin them —

And ’twas they, and not ourself

That mourned.