I am alive -- I guess --
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory --
And at my finger's end --
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth -- it blurs it --
Physician's -- proof of Breath --
I am not in a Room --
The Parlor -- Commonly -- it is --
So Visitors may come --
And add "How cold -- it grew" --
And "Was it conscious -- when it stepped
In Immortality?"
I am alive -- because
I do not own a House --
Entitled to myself -- precise --
And fitting no one else --
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine -- and not
-- Emily Dickinson
(December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)










