Memorials. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Death sets a thing significant
    The eye had hurried by,
    Except a perished creature
    Entreat us tenderly

    To ponder little workmanships
    In crayon or in wool,
    With “This was last her fingers did,”
    Industrious until

    The thimble weighed too heavy,
    The stitches stopped themselves,
    And then ‘t was put among the dust
    Upon the closet shelves.

    A book I have, a friend gave,
    Whose pencil, here and there,
    Had notched the place that pleased him, —
    At rest his fingers are.

    Now, when I read, I read not,
    For interrupting tears
    Obliterate the etchings
    Too costly for repairs.