Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete — XXXI

I meant to find her when I came;
Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
And the discomfit mine.

I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode;
To rest, — to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.