J. 412 by Emily Dickinson

I read my sentence — steadily —
Reviewed it with my eyes,
To see that I made no mistake
In its extremest clause —
The Date, and manner, of the shame —
And then the Pious Form
That "God have mercy" on the Soul
The Jury voted Him —
I made my soul familiar — with her extremity —
That at the last, it should not be a novel Agony —
But she, and Death, acquainted —
Meet tranquilly, as friends —
Salute, and pass, without a Hint —
And there, the Matter ends —