'Twas warm—at first—like Us

Emily Dickinson

 Next Poem          


'Twas warm—at first—like Us—
Until there crept upon
A Chill—like frost upon a Glass—
Till all the scene—be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone—
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache—and like a Skater's Brook—
The busy eyes—congealed—

It straightened—that was all—
It crowded Cold to Cold—
It multiplied indifference—
As Pride were all it could—

And even when with Cords—
'Twas lowered, like a Weight—
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

Next Poem 

 Back to Emily Dickinson

To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.

  • shirleyschweizer

    I love this poem, but what's it about? 😊

    • arejess276

      Just doing some homework & stumbled across this poem again. It always stuck me, especially the line "The busy eyes—congealed—". Such a chilling image.