Emily’s truth was at sleep , beauty lying under,
Scarce adjusted to a tomb, grown chatty lately.
It takes time to be adjusted to its cold, you see.
It is cold truth , a fallen form of love of beauty.
They were lying in the beds in adjoining rooms
And carried on their old times talk to late hours-
About how the old friends faded,the neighbors
Who ran away with whom,who kicked buckets.
I am beauty, a nobody who died ,who are you?
Asks Emily to Truth across the sepulchral walls.
I am truth a nobody who died, your former self.
Moss would slowly cover their lips and names.
(reading Emily Dickinson’s poem I died for Beauty)