Delayed till she has ceased to know–
Delayed till in its vest of snow
Her loving bosom lay–
An hour behind the fleeting breath–
Later by just an hour than Death–
Oh lagging Yesterday!
Could she have guessed that it w’d be–
Could but a crier of the joy
Have climbed the distant hill–
Had not the bliss so slow a pace
Who knows but this surrendered face
Were undefeated still?
Oh if there may departing be
Any forgot by Victory
In her imperial round–
Show them this meek appareled thing
That could not stop to be a king–
Doubtful if it be crowned!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859