Emily Dickinson

The Spirit lasts — but in what mode —
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes —
Apart, it never talks —
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone — is not a Tune —
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know — now — or does it cease —
That

The spry Arms of the Wind
If I could crawl between
I have an errand imminent
To an adjoining Zone —

I should not care to stop
My Process is not long
The Wind could wait without the Gate
Or stroll the Town among.

To ascertain the House
And is the soul at Home
And hold the Wick of mine to it
To light, and then return —

The Stars are old, that stood for me —
The West a little worn —
Yet newer glows the only Gold
I ever cared to earn —

Presuming on that lone result
Her infinite disdain
But vanquished her with my defeat
‘Twas Victory was slain.
-Emily Dickinson

The stem of a departed Flower
Has still a silent rank.
The Bearer from an Emerald Court
Of a Despatch of Pink.
-Emily Dickinson

The Stimulus, beyond the Grave
His Countenance to see
Supports me like imperial Drams
Afforded Day by Day.
-Emily Dickinson

The Suburbs of a Secret
A Strategist should keep,
Better than on a Dream intrude
To scrutinize the Sleep.
-Emily Dickinson

The Summer that we did not prize,
Her treasures were so easy
Instructs us by departing now
And recognition lazy —

Bestirs itself — puts on its Coat,
And scans with fatal promptness
For Trains that moment out of sight,
Unconscious of his smartness.
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun — just touched the Morning —
The Morning — Happy thing —
Supposed that He had come to dwell —
And Life would all be Spring!

She felt herself supremer —
A Raised — Ethereal Thing!
Henceforth — for Her — What Holiday!
Meanwhile — Her wheeling King —
Trailed — slow — along the Orchards —
His haughty — spangled Hems —
Leaving a new necessity!
The want of Diadems!

The Morning — fluttered — staggered —
Felt feebly

The Sun and Fog contested
The Government of Day —
The Sun took down his Yellow Whip
And drove the Fog away —
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun and Moon must make their haste —
The Stars express around
For in the Zones of Paradise
The Lord alone is burned —

His Eye, it is the East and West —
The North and South when He
Do concentrate His Countenance
Like Glow Worms, flee away —

Oh Poor and Far —
Oh Hindred Eye
That hunted for the Day —
The Lord a Candle entertains
Entirely for Thee —

The Sun in reigning to the West
Makes not as much of sound
As Cart of man in road below
Adroitly turning round
That Whiffletree of Amethyst
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun is gay or stark
According to our Deed.
If Merry, He is merrier —
If eager for the Dead

Or an expended Day
He helped to make too bright
His mighty pleasure suits Us not
It magnifies our Freight
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun is one — and on the Tare
He doth as punctual call
As on the conscientious Flower
And estimates them all —
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun kept setting — setting — still
No Hue of Afternoon —
Upon the Village I perceived
From House to House ’twas Noon —

The Dusk kept dropping — dropping — still
No Dew upon the Grass —
But only on my Forehead stopped —
And wandered in my Face —

My Feet kept drowsing — drowsing — still
My fingers were awake —
Yet why so little sound — Myself
Unto my Seeming — make?

How well I knew

The Sun kept stooping — stooping — low!
The Hills to meet him rose!
On his side, what Transaction!
On their side, what Repose!

Deeper and deeper grew the stain
Upon the window pane —
Thicker and thicker stood the feet
Until the Tyrian

Was crowded dense with Armies —
So gay, so Brigadier —
That I felt martial stirrings
Who once the Cockade wore —

Charged from my chimney corner —
But Nobody was there!

The Sun retired to a cloud
A Woman’s shawl as big —
And then he sulked in mercury
Upon a scarlet log —
The drops on Nature’s forehead stood
Home flew the loaded bees —
The South unrolled a purple fan
And handed to the trees.
-Emily Dickinson

The Sunrise runs for Both —
The East — Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill —
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two —
Remotest — still —

Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each — to set —
Wicks wide away —
The North — Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine —
Till Both — can see —

The Midnight’s Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so
Upon Her Bosom — One —
And One upon Her

The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Sunset hence must be
For treason not of His, but Life’s,
Gone Westerly, Today —

The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Morning just begun —
What difference, after all, Thou mak’st
Thou supercilious Sun?
-Emily Dickinson

The Sun went down — no Man looked on —
The Earth and I, alone,
Were present at the Majesty —
He triumphed, and went on —

The Sun went up — no Man looked on —
The Earth and I and One
A nameless Bird — a Stranger
Were Witness for the Crown —
-Emily Dickinson

The sweetest Heresy received
That Man and Woman know —
Each Other’s Convert —
Though the Faith accommodate but Two —

The Churches are so frequent —
The Ritual — so small —
The Grace so unavoidable —
To fail — is Infidel —
-Emily Dickinson

The Sweets of Pillage, can be known
To no one but the Thief —
Compassion for Integrity
Is his divinest Grief —
-Emily Dickinson

The Symptom of the Gale —
The Second of Dismay —
Between its Rumor and its Face —
Is almost Revelry —

The Houses firmer root —
The Heavens cannot be found —
The Upper Surfaces of things
Take covert in the Ground —

The Mem’ry of the Sun
Not Any can recall —
Although by Nature’s sterling Watch
So scant an interval —

And when the Noise is caught
And Nature looks around —
“We dreamed it”? She interrogates —
“Good Morning” —

The Test of Love — is Death —
Our Lord — “so loved” — it saith —
What Largest Lover — hath
Another — doth —

If smaller Patience — be —
Through less Infinity —
If Bravo, sometimes swerve —
Through fainter Nerve —

Accept its Most —
And overlook — the Dust —
Last — Least —
The Cross’ — Request —
-Emily

The Things that never can come back, are several —
Childhood — some forms of Hope — the Dead —
Though Joys — like Men — may sometimes make a Journey —
And still abide —
We do not mourn for Traveler, or Sailor,
Their Routes are fair —
But think enlarged of all that they will tell us
Returning here —
“Here!” There are typic “Heres” —
Foretold Locations —
The Spirit does not stand —
Himself — at

The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun —

The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation’s Son —

The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause
When Discipline was done
Untenable to Logic
But possibly the one —
-Emily Dickinson