Emily Dickinson

The thought beneath so slight a film —
Is more distinctly seen —
As laces just reveal the surge —
Or mists — the Apennine
-Emily Dickinson

The Thrill came slowly like a Boom for
Centuries delayed
Its fitness growing like the Flood
In sumptuous solitude —
The desolations only missed
While Rapture changed its Dress
And stood amazed before the Change
In ravished Holiness —
-Emily Dickinson

The Tint I cannot take — is best —
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar —
A Guinea at a sight —

The fine — impalpable Array —
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra’s Company —
Repeated — in the sky —

The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite — to tell —

The eager look — on Landscapes —
As if they just repressed
Some Secret

The Treason of an accent
Might Ecstasy transfer —
Of her effacing Fathom
Is no Recoverer —
—
The Treason of an Accent
Might vilify the Joy —
To breathe — corrode the rapture
Of Sanctity to be —
-Emily Dickinson

The Trees like Tassels — hit — and swung —
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun —

Far Psalteries of Summer —
Enamoring the Ear
They never yet did satisfy —
Remotest — when most fair

The Sun shone whole at intervals —
Then Half — then utter hid —
As if Himself were optional
And had Estates of Cloud

Sufficient to enfold Him
Eternally from view —
Except it were a whim of His
To let the

The Truth — is stirless —
Other force — may be presumed to move —
This — then — is best for confidence —
When oldest Cedars swerve —

And Oaks untwist their fists —
And Mountains — feeble — lean —
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone —

How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop —
Truth stays Herself — and every man
That trusts Her — boldly up —

The vastest earthly Day
Is shrunken small
By one Defaulting Face
Behind a Pall —
-Emily Dickinson

The Veins of other Flowers
The Scarlet Flowers are
Till Nature leisure has for Terms
As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”

We pass, and she abides.
We conjugate Her Skill
While She creates and federates
Without a syllable.
-Emily Dickinson

The Voice that stands for Floods to me
Is sterile borne to some —
The Face that makes the Morning mean
Glows impotent on them —

What difference in Substance lies
That what is Sum to me
By other Financiers be deemed
Exclusive Property!
-Emily Dickinson

The waters chased him as he fled,
Not daring look behind —
A billow whispered in his Ear,
“Come home with me, my friend–
My parlor is of shriven glass,
My pantry has a fish
For every palate in the Year” —
To this revolting bliss
The object floating at his side
Made no distinct reply.
-Emily Dickinson

The way Hope builds his House
It is not with a sill —
Nor Rafter — has that Edifice
But only Pinnacle —

Abode in as supreme
This superficies
As if it were of Ledges smit
Or mortised with the Laws —
-Emily Dickinson

The Way I read a Letter’s — this —
‘Tis first — I lock the Door —
And push it with my fingers — next —
For transport it be sure —

And then I go the furthest off
To counteract a knock —
Then draw my little Letter forth
And slowly pick the lock —

Then — glancing narrow, at the Wall —
And narrow at the floor
For firm Conviction of a Mouse
Not exorcised before —

Peruse how

The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him —
Obliged to be inferred.

Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.

Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law —
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.

Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy —
He compliments existence
Until allured away

By Seasons or his Children —
Adult and urgent grown —
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown —

By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone —
How nullified

The Well upon the Brook
Were foolish to depend —
Let Brooks — renew of Brooks —
But Wells — of failless Ground!
-Emily Dickinson

The Whole of it came not at once —
‘Twas Murder by degrees —
A Thrust — and then for Life a chance —
The Bliss to cauterize —

The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease —
Then mashes it to death —

‘Tis Life’s award — to die —
Contenteder if once —
Than dying half — then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse —

The Wind — tapped like a tired Man —
And like a Host — “Come in”
I boldly answered — entered then
My Residence within

A Rapid — footless Guest —
To offer whom a Chair
Were as impossible as hand
A Sofa to the Air —

No Bone had He to bind Him —
His Speech was like the Push
Of numerous Humming Birds at once
From a superior Bush —

His Countenance — a Billow —
His Fingers, as He

The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low —
He threw a Menace at the Earth —
A Menace at the Sky.

The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees —
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw away the Road.

The Wagons quickened on the Streets
The Thunder hurried slow —
The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak
And then a livid Claw.

The Birds put up the Bars to Nests —
The Cattle

The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard — today —
Further than that —
Nor stop to play with the Hay —
Nor joggle a Hat —
He’s a transitive fellow — very —
Rely on that —

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir —
But the Fir is Where — Declare —
Were you ever there?

If He brings Odors of Clovers —
And that is His business — not

The wind drew off
Like hungry dogs
Defeated of a bone
Through fissures in
Volcanic cloud
The yellow lightning shone
The trees held up
Their mangled limbs
Like animals in pain
When Nature falls upon herself
Beware an Austrian.

The Wind took up the Northern Things
And piled them in the south —
Then gave the East unto the West
And opening his mouth

The four Divisions of the Earth
Did make as to devour
While everything to corners slunk
Behind the awful power —

The Wind — unto his Chambers went
And nature ventured out —
Her subjects scattered into place
Her systems ranged about

Again the smoke from Dwellings rose
The Day abroad was heard —
How intimate, a Tempest

The Winters are so short —
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away —
And moving into Pod —

Myself — for scarcely settled —
The Phoebes have begun —
And then — it’s time to strike my Tent —
And open House — again —

It’s mostly, interruptions —
My Summer — is despoiled —
Because there was a Winter — once —
And al the Cattle — starved —

And so there was a Deluge —
And swept

The words the happy say
Are paltry melody
But those the silent feel
Are beautiful —
-Emily Dickinson

The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done —
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.
-Emily Dickinson

The World — feels Dusty
When We stop to Die —
We want the Dew — then —
Honors — taste dry —

Flags — vex a Dying face —
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand —
Cools — like the Rain —

Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes —
And Hybla Balms —
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch —

The World — stands — solemner — to me —
Since I was wed — to Him —
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another’s — name —
A doubt — if it be fair — indeed —
To wear that perfect — pearl —
The Man — upon the Woman — binds —
To clasp her soul — for all —
A prayer, that it more angel — prove —
A whiter Gift — within —
To