Emily Dickinson - Her lyrics

312 Her—"last Poems" Poets—ended Silver—perished—with her Tongue Not on Record—bubbled other Flute—or Woman So divine Not unto its Summer—Morning Robin—uttered Half the Tune Gushed too free for the Adoring From the Anglo-Florentine Late—the Praise 'Tis dull—conferring On the Head too High to Crown Diadem—or Ducal Showing Be its Grave—sufficient sign Nought—that We—No Poet's Kinsman Suffocate—with easy woe What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom Put Her down—in Italy?