Read the poem: “Dying (The sun kept setting, setting still)”

by Emily Dickinson

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The sun kept setting, setting still;

No hue of afternoon

Upon the village I perceived, —

From house to house ‘t was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;

No dew upon the grass,

But only on my forehead stopped,

And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,

My fingers were awake;

Yet why so little sound myself

Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!

I could not see it now.

‘T is dying, I am doing; but

I’m not afraid to know.

< < < Dying (I heard a fly buzz when I died)
Each that we lose takes part of us > > >

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