Along The Potomac.

A poem by Emily Dickinson

When I was small, a woman died.
To-day her only boy
Went up from the Potomac,
His face all victory,

To look at her; how slowly
The seasons must have turned
Till bullets clipt an angle,
And he passed quickly round!

If pride shall be in Paradise
I never can decide;
Of their imperial conduct,
No person testified.

But proud in apparition,
That woman and her boy
Pass back and forth before my brain,
As ever in the sky.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Along The Potomac.' by Emily Dickinson

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy