We slowly drove – He knew no haste.
Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purple of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews the Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—
Thigh of Granite—and thew—of Steel—
Heedless—alike-of pomp—or partingAh Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling—still—
That we are permanent
temporarily,
it is warm to know,
though we know no more.
Emily Dickinson’s Herbarium, digital facsimile. By permission of the Houghton Library, Harvard University; via nybg
Emily Dickinson’s Herbarium, digital facsimile. By permission of the Houghton Library, Harvard University; via poets