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Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With "This was last her fingers did,"
Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then 't was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him, --
At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.
Emily Dickinson,
(1830 – 1886)
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Unique Funeral Poems that Comfort and Heal
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poems ideal for family, friends and any loved one you want to remember in
one, easily downloadable e-book. Spend your time together with family and
friends, not pouring your heart over trying to write a funeral poem.
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