607 <br /> <br />Of nearness to her sundered Things <br />The Soul has special times— <br />When Dimness—looks the Oddity— <br />Distinctness—easy—seems— <br /> <br />The Shapes we buried, dwell about, <br />Familiar, in the Rooms— <br />Untarnished by the Sepulchre, <br />The Mouldering Playmate comes— <br /> <br />In just the Jacket that he wore— <br />Long buttoned in the Mold <br />Since we—old mornings, Children—played— <br />Divided—by a world— <br /> <br />The Grave yields back her Robberies— <br />The Years, our pilfered Things— <br />Bright Knots of Apparitions <br />Salute us, with their wings— <br /> <br />As we—it were—that perished— <br />Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them— <br />And 'twas they, and not ourself <br />That mourned.<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-nearness-to-her-sundered-things/
