743 <br /> <br />The Birds reported from the South— <br />A News express to Me— <br />A spicy Charge, My little Posts— <br />But I am deaf—Today— <br /> <br />The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng— <br />I reinforced the Door— <br />Go blossom for the Bees—I said— <br />And trouble Me—no More— <br /> <br />The Summer Grace, for Notice strove— <br />Remote—Her best Array— <br />The Heart—to stimulate the Eye <br />Refused too utterly— <br /> <br />At length, a Mourner, like Myself, <br />She drew away austere— <br />Her frosts to ponder—then it was <br />I recollected Her— <br /> <br />She suffered Me, for I had mourned— <br />I offered Her no word— <br />My Witness—was the Crape I bore— <br />Her—Witness—was Her Dead— <br /> <br />Thenceforward—We—together dwelt— <br />I never questioned Her— <br />Our Contract <br />A Wiser Sympathy<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-birds-reported-from-the-south/
