Emily Dickinson — Too Late

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     In her imperial round, Show them this meek apparelled thing, That could not stop to be a king,     Doubtful if it be crowned!