445 <br /> <br />'Twas just this time, last year, I died. <br />I know I heard the Corn, <br />When I was carried by the Farms— <br />It had the Tassels on— <br /> <br />I thought how yellow it would look— <br />When Richard went to mill— <br />And then, I wanted to get out, <br />But something held my will. <br /> <br />I thought just how Red—Apples wedged <br />The Stubble's joints between— <br />And the Carts stooping round the fields <br />To take the Pumpkins in— <br /> <br />I wondered which would miss me, least, <br />And when Thanksgiving, came, <br />If Father'd multiply the plates— <br />To make an even Sum— <br /> <br />And would it blur the Christmas glee <br />My Stocking hang too high <br />For any Santa Claus to reach <br />The Altitude of me— <br /> <br />But this sort, grieved myself, <br />And so, I thought the other way, <br />How just this time, some perfect year— <br />Themself, should come to me—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twas-just-this-time-last-year-i-died/
