There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons–
That opresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes–
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us–
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the meanings are–
None may teach it–Any–
‘Tis the Seal Despair–
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air–
When it comes, the Landscape listens–
Shadows–hold their breath–
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death–
– Emily Dickinson
Tagged: death, Emily Dickinson, mystic, philosophy