Emily Shore 1819-1839

She'd been coughing up blood since the dogwoods

Bloomed seventeen that spring and confined to her room

At night her heart pounded holes in her chest

Death, like a bird, was building its nest

She'd laughed at the graveyard on one sip of wine

And kept a pet duck till the cat crushed its spine

But, waltzing one night in a red velvet dress

She noticed a whistling down in her chest

Propped up on pillows, she watched the snow fall

Trying to picture an end to it all

By spring there'd be picnics and merry-go-rounds

But she'd be nothing but bones in the ground

And so, on the last day of her short life

Emily called for her father's penknife

She sawed at her head till the floor pooled with hair

And braided a watch chain for father (mother) to wear