Poem 2 (J 607: 1862/1929)

Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times--
When Dimness--looks the Oddity--
Distinctness--easy--seems--

The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms--
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,


In just the Jacket that he wore--
Long buttoned int he Mold
Since we--old mornings, Children--played--
Divided by a world--

The Grave yields back her Robberies--
The Years, our pilfered Things--
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us with their wings--

As we--it were--that perished--
Themself--had just remained till we rejoin them--
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.

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