144 <br /> <br />She bore it till the simple veins <br />Traced azure on her hand— <br />Til pleading, round her quiet eyes <br />The purple Crayons stand. <br /> <br />Till Daffodils had come and gone <br />I cannot tell the sum, <br />And then she ceased to bear it— <br />And with the Saints sat down. <br /> <br />No more her patient figure <br />At twilight soft to meet— <br />No more her timid bonnet <br />Upon the village street— <br /> <br />But Crowns instead, and Courtiers— <br />And in the midst so fair, <br />Whose but her shy—immortal face <br />Of whom we're whispering here?<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-bore-it-till-the-simple-veins/
