My mistress is the fragile recluse
running barefoot through the snow,
in a gown and field of white
where roses would not dare to go.

Wherever runs the breathless sun
how far the village lies,
how soft the wind that blew her hair
beneath the Amherst skies.

I’ve tasted of the liquor brewed
of so eloquent she told,
I’ve felt a funeral in my brain
and know of buried gold.

She taught me how the sun rose
I felt like I was there,
she spoke to me of flies that buzz
of death and of despair.

Too late I came to find her gone, and
because she could not stop for death,
out into the cold she ran,
fleeing love and out of breath.

Within my grasp so desperately
I measure every grief I meet,
step lightly on this narrow spot
with footprints of my lover’s feet.

I would not stop for night, or storm
or frost or death, or anyone,
until I hoped to find her safe
beneath the Amherst morning sun.

Yet before the night was over
I knew without a doubt,
the flame that was my Emily
grew weak and flickered out.

A curious cloud surprised the sky.
What spirit lifted there above?
She went as quiet as the dew,
it was then I knew I’d lost my love.

Love can do all but raise the dead,
The immortality she gave ~
She died for beauty, but was scarce,
and now I weep ~ beside her grave.




(Fans of Emily Dickinson will find several 'Emilyisms' throughout this poem ~ I hope you like it.)

Jim Jordan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/chasing-emily-dickinson-through-the-snow/