"Promise this, when you be dying,
Some shall summon me;
Mine belong your latest sighing,
Mine to belt your eye. -

Not with coins, though they be minted
From an Emperor's hand;
Be my lips the only buckle
Your low eyes demand.

Mine to stay, when all have wandered,
To devise once more
If the life be too structured
Life of mine restore.

Poured like this, my whole libation,
Just that you should see
Bliss of Death Life's bliss surpass
In more resembling you.

Mine to guard your narrow precinct,
To entice the sun
Longest on your South to linger;
Regal dews of morn.

To demand, in your low favor,
Lest the jealous grass
Greener lean, or fonder cluster
Round some other face.

Mine to supplicate Madonna,
If Madonna be,
Could regard so scarce a creature
Christ omitted me.

Just to follow your dear features,
Ne'er so far behind,
For my Heaven, of all Her glories
Worthiest to have gained."

Emily Dickinson