Emily Dickinson

Patience — has a quiet Outer —
Patience — Look within —
Is an Insect’s futile forces
Infinites — between —

‘Scaping one — against the other
Fruitlesser to fling —
Patience — is the Smile’s exertion
Through the quivering —
-Emily Dickinson

Peace is a fiction of our Faith —
The Bells a Winter Night
Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound
That never did alight.
-Emily Dickinson

Perception of an object costs
Precise the Object’s loss —
Perception in itself a Gain
Replying to its Price —

The Object Absolute — is nought —
Perception sets it fair
And then upbraids a Perfectness
That situates so far —
-Emily Dickinson

Perhaps I asked too large —
I take — no less than skies —
For Earths, grow thick as
Berries, in my native town —

My Basked holds — just — Firmaments —
Those — dangle easy — on my arm,
But smaller bundles — Cram.
-Emily Dickinson

Perhaps they do not go so far
As we who stay, suppose —
Perhaps come closer, for the lapse
Of their corporeal clothes —

It may be know so certainly
How short we have to fear
That comprehension antedates
And estimates us there —
-Emily Dickinson

Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower,
But I could never sell —
If you would like to borrow,
Until the Daffodil

Unties her yellow Bonnet
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,

Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!
-Emily Dickinson

Perhaps you think me stooping
I’m not ashamed of that
Christ — stooped until He touched the Grave —
Do those at Sacrament

Commemorative Dishonor
Or love annealed of love
Until it bend as low as Death
Redignified, above?
-Emily Dickinson

Peril as a Possesssion
‘Tis Good to hear
Danger disintegrates Satiety
There’s Basis there –
Begets an awe
That searches Human Nature’s creases
As clean as Fire.
-Emily Dickinson

Pigmy seraphs — gone astray —
Velvet people from Vevay —
Balles from some lost summer day —
Bees exclusive Coterie —
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald —
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek —
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid —

I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl’s distinguished face —
I had rather dwell like her
Than be “Duke

Pink — small — and punctual —
Aromatic — low —
Covert — in April —
Candid — in May —
Dear to the Moss —
Known to the Knoll —
Next to the Robin
In every human Soul —
Bold little Beauty
Bedecked with thee
Nature forswears
Antiquity –
-Emily Dickinson

Poor little Heart!
Did they forget thee?
Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

Proud little Heart!
Did they forsake thee?
Be debonnaire! Be debonnaire!

Frail little Heart!
I would not break thee —
Could’st credit me? Could’st credit me?

Gay little Heart —
Like Morning Glory!
Wind and Sun — wilt thee array!
-Emily Dickinson

Portraits are to daily faces
As an Evening West,
To a fine, pedantic sunshine —
In a satin Vest!
-Emily Dickinson

Power is a familiar growth —
Not foreign — not to be —
Beside us like a bland Abyss
In every company —
Escape it — there is but a chance —
When consciousness and clay
Lean forward for a final glance —
Disprove that and you may —
-Emily Dickinson

Praise it — ’tis dead —
It cannot glow —
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here —
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust —
Remitted — since it flitted it
In recusance august.
-Emily Dickinson

Prayer is the little implement
Through which Men reach
Where Presence — is denied them.
They fling their Speech

By means of it — in God’s Ear —
If then He hear —
This sums the Apparatus
Comprised in Prayer —
-Emily Dickinson

Precious to Me — She still shall be —
Though She forget the name I bear —
The fashion of the Gown I wear —
The very Color of My Hair —

So like the Meadows — now —
I dared to show a Tress of Theirs
If haply — She might not despise
A Buttercup’s Array —

I know the Whole — obscures the Part —
The fraction — that appeased the Heart
Till Number’s Empery —
Remembered —

Presentiment — is that long Shadow — on the Lawn —
Indicatives that Suns go down —

The Notice to the startled Grass
That Darkness — is about to pass —
-Emily Dickinson

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 surrendered —
Life of Mine — restore —

Poured like this

Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,

Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

Thou can’st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion
Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene

Thou can’st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture,
See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!

Publication — is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man —
Poverty — be justifying
For so foul a thing

Possibly — but We — would rather
From Our Garret go
White — Unto the White Creator —
Than invest — Our Snow —

Thought belong to Him who gave it —
Then — to Him Who bear
Its Corporeal illustration — Sell
The Royal Air —

In the Parcel — Be the Merchant
Of the Heavenly Grace —
But reduce no Human

Purple — is fashionable twice —
This season of the year,
And when a soul perceives itself
To be an Emperor.
-Emily Dickinson

Pursuing you in your transitions,
In other Motes —
Of other Myths
Your requisition be.
The Prism never held the Hues,
It only heard them play —
-Emily Dickinson

Put up my lute!
What of — my Music!
Since the sole ear I cared to charm —
Passive — as Granite — laps My Music —
Sobbing — will suit — as well as psalm!

Would but the “Memnon” of the Desert —
Teach me the strain
That vanquished Him —
When He — surrendered to the Sunrise —
Maybe — that — would awaken — them!

Quite empty, quite at rest,
The Robin locks her Nest, and tries her Wings.
She does not know a Route
But puts her Craft about
For rumored Springs —
She does not ask for Noon —
She does not ask for Boon,
Crumbless and homeless, of but one request —
The Birds she lost —
-Emily Dickinson

Rather arid delight
If Contentment accrue
Make an abstemious Ecstasy
Not so good as joy —

But Rapture’s Expense
Must not be incurred
With a tomorrow knocking
And the Rent unpaid —
-Emily Dickinson