They Leave Us With The Infinite

Emily Dickinson

350

They leave us with the Infinite.
But He—is not a man—
His fingers are the size of fists—
His fists, the size of men—

And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand—
Gibraltar’s Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,

So trust him, Comrade—
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.

Next 10 Poems

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Previous 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : They Have Not Chosen Me, He Said
• Emily Dickinson : They Have A Little Odor-that To Me
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• Emily Dickinson : They Ask But Our Delight
• Emily Dickinson : These-saw Visions
• Emily Dickinson : These Tested Our Horizon
• Emily Dickinson : These Strangers, In A Foreign World
• Emily Dickinson : These Held Their Wick Above The West-
• Emily Dickinson : These Fevered Days-to Take Them To The Forest