Too Late. By Emily Dickinson

    Delayed till she had ceased to know,
    Delayed till in its vest of snow
         Her loving bosom lay.
    An hour behind the fleeting breath,
    Later by just an hour than death, —
         Oh, lagging yesterday!

    Could she have guessed that it would be;
    Could but a crier of the glee
         Have climbed the distant hill;
    Had not the bliss so slow a pace, —
    Who knows but this surrendered face
         Were undefeated still?

    Oh, if there may departing be
    Any forgot by victory
         In her imperial round,
    Show them this meek apparelled thing,
    That could not stop to be a king,
         Doubtful if it be crowned!