Going. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

On such a night, or such a night,
    Would anybody care
    If such a little figure
    Slipped quiet from its chair,

    So quiet, oh, how quiet!
    That nobody might know
    But that the little figure
    Rocked softer, to and fro?

    On such a dawn, or such a dawn,
    Would anybody sigh
    That such a little figure
    Too sound asleep did lie

    For chanticleer to wake it, —
    Or stirring house below,
    Or giddy bird in orchard,
    Or early task to do?

    There was a little figure plump
    For every little knoll,
    Busy needles, and spools of thread,
    And trudging feet from school.

    Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,
    And visions vast and small.
    Strange that the feet so precious charged
    Should reach so small a goal!