The Manner Of Its Death Poem by Emily Dickinson

The Manner Of Its Death



468

The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die—
'Tis deemed a privilege to choose—
'Twas Major Andre's Way—

When Choice of Life—is past—
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate—

How small in those who live—

The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles—
How "they are Dying mostly—now"—
And Customs at "St. James"!

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Amherst / Massachusetts
Close
Error Success