She Bore It Till The Simple Veins
by Emily Dickinson
She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand—
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.
Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it—
And with the Saints sat down.
No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet—
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street—
But Crowns instead, and Courtiers—
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy—immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?