Emily Dickinson - Of nearness to her sundered Things lyrics

607 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 The Mouldering Playmate comes In just the Jacket that he wore Long bu*toned in the 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