The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed
  Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used
  To kiss.—­Such arms—­such hands I never knew. 
      May I not weep with you?

  Fain would I be of service—­say some thing,
  Between the tears, that would be comforting,—­
  But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I,
      Who have no child to die.

J.W.  RILEY.

The Chariot.

  Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
  The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

  We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
  My labor, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

  We passed the school where children played,
    Their lessons scarcely done;
  We passed the fields of gazing grain. 
    We passed the setting sun.

  We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
  The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

  Since then ’tis centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
  I first surmised the horses’ heads
    Were toward eternity.

E. DICKINSON.

Indian Summer.

  These are the days when birds come back,
  A very few, a bird or two,
  To take a backward look.

  These are the days when skies put on
  The old, old sophistries of June,—­
  A blue and gold mistake.

  Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
  Almost thy plausibility
  Induces my belief,

  Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
  And softly through the altered air
  Hurries a timid leaf!

  Oh, sacrament of summer days,
  Oh, last communion in the haze,
  Permit a child to join,

  Thy sacred emblems to partake,
  Thy consecrated bread to break,
  Taste thine immortal wine!

E. DICKINSON.

Confided.

  Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold,
  Within this quiet fold,
  Among Thy Father’s sheep
  I lay to sleep! 
  A heart that never for a night did rest
  Beyond its mother’s breast. 
  Lord, keep it close to Thee,
  Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!

J.B.  TABB.

In Absence.

  All that thou art not, makes not up the sum
    Of what thou art, beloved, unto me: 
  All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb;
    All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.

J.B.  TABB.

Song of the Chattahoochee.[13]

  Out of the hills of Habersham,
  Down the valleys of Hall,
  I hurry amain to reach the plain,
  Run the rapids and leap the fall
  Split at the rock and together again,
  Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
  And flee from folly on every side
  With a lover’s pain to attain the plain
    Far from the hills of Habersham,
    Far from the valleys of Hall.