That odd old man is dead a year —
We miss his stated Hat.
‘Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.

Who miss his antiquated Wick —
Are any hoar for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?

Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee —
Feels transitive and cool.
-Emily Dickinson