Further Poems of Emily Dickinson/'Twas warm at first like us,

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'TWAS warm at first like us,Until there crept thereonA chill, like frost upon a glassTill all the scene be gone.
The forehead copied stone,The fingers grew too coldTo ache, and like a skater's brookThe busy eyes congealed.
It straightened—that was all.It crowded cold to cold—It multiplied indifferenceAs Pride were all it could.
And even when with cords'Twas lowered like a freight,It made no signal, nor demurred,But dropped like adamant.
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