Along The Potomac. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

When I was small, a woman died.
    To-day her only boy
    Went up from the Potomac,
    His face all victory,

    To look at her; how slowly
    The seasons must have turned
    Till bullets clipt an angle,
    And he passed quickly round!

    If pride shall be in Paradise
    I never can decide;
    Of their imperial conduct,
    No person testified.

    But proud in apparition,
    That woman and her boy
    Pass back and forth before my brain,
    As ever in the sky.