Emily Dickinson

The joy that has no stem no core,
Nor seed that we can sow,
Is edible to longing.
But ablative to show.

By fundamental palates
Those products are preferred
Impregnable to transit
And patented by pod.
-Emily Dickinson

The Judge is like the Owl —
I’ve heard my Father tell —
And Owls do build in Oaks —
So here’s an Amber Sill —

That slanted in my Path —
When going to the Barn —
And if it serve You for a House —
Itself is not in vain —

About the price — ’tis small —
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight — Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.

The Juggler’s Hat her Country is —
The Mountain Gorse — the Bee’s!
-Emily Dickinson

The Lady feeds Her little Bird
At rarer intervals —
The little Bird would not dissent
But meekly recognize

The Gulf between the Hand and Her
And crumbless and afar
And fainting, on Her yellow Knee
Fall softly, and adore —
-Emily Dickinson

The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho’ Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!

The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.
-Emily Dickinson

The largest Fire ever known
Occurs each Afternoon —
Discovered is without surprise
Proceeds without concern —
Consumes and no report to men
An Occidental Town,
Rebuilt another morning
To be burned down again.
-Emily Dickinson

The Lassitudes of Contemplation
Beget a force
They are the spirit’s still vacation
That him refresh —
The Dreams consolidate in action —
What mettle fair
-Emily Dickinson

The last Night that She lived
It was a Common Night
Except the Dying — this to Us
Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things —
Things overlooked before
By this great light upon our Minds
Italicized — as ’twere.

As We went out and in
Between Her final Room
And Rooms where Those to be alive
Tomorrow were, a Blame

That Others could exist
While She must finish quite
A Jealousy for Her arose
So nearly infinite —

We waited while She passed —
It

The last of Summer is Delight —
Deterred by Retrospect.
‘Tis Ecstasy’s revealed Review —
Enchantment’s Syndicate.

To meet it — nameless as it is —
Without celestial Mail —
Audacious as without a Knock
To walk within the Veil.

-Emily Dickinson

The Leaves like Women interchange
Exclusive Confidence —
Somewhat of nods and somewhat
Portentous inference.

The Parties in both cases
Enjoining secrecy —
Inviolable compact
To notoriety.
-Emily Dickinson

The Life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein —
The Horse that scents the living Grass
And sees the Pastures smile
Will be retaken with a shot
If he is caught at all —
-Emily Dickinson

The Life we have is very great.
The Life that we shall see
Surpasses it, we know, because
It is Infinity.
But when all Space has been beheld
And all Dominion shown
The smallest Human Heart’s extent
Reduces it to none.
-Emily Dickinson

The Lightning is a yellow Fork
From Tables in the sky
By inadvertent fingers dropt
The awful Cutlery

Of mansions never quite disclosed
And never quite concealed
The Apparatus of the Dark
To ignorance revealed.
-Emily Dickinson

The Lightning playeth — all the while —
But when He singeth — then —
Ourselves are conscious He exist —
And we approach Him — stern —

With Insulators — and a Glove —
Whose short — sepulchral Bass
Alarms us — tho’ His Yellow feet
May pass — and counterpass —

Upon the Ropes — above our Head —
Continual — with the News —
Nor We so much as check our speech —
Nor stop to cross

The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight —
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation — not to Touch —
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West —
The Calyx is the Earth —
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun —
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis —
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be

The Loneliness One dare not sound —
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size —

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see —
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny —

The Horror not to be surveyed —
But skirted in the Dark —
With Consciousness suspended —
And Being under Lock —

I fear me this — is Loneliness —
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and

The lonesome for they know not What —
The Eastern Exiles — be —
Who strayed beyond the Amber line
Some madder Holiday —

And ever since — the purple Moat
They strive to climb — in vain —
As Birds — that tumble from the clouds
Do fumble at the strain —

The Blessed Ether — taught them —
Some Transatlantic Morn —
When Heaven — was too common — to miss —
Too sure — to dote upon!

The longest day that God appoints
Will finish with the sun.
Anguish can travel to its stake,
And then it must return.
-Emily Dickinson

The long sigh of the Frog
Upon a Summer’s Day
Enacts intoxication
Upon the Revery —
But his receding Swell
Substantiates a Peace
That makes the Ear inordinate
For corporal release —
-Emily Dickinson

The look of thee, what is it like
Hast thou a hand or Foot
Or Mansion of Identity
And what is thy Pursuit?

Thy fellows are they realms or Themes
Hast thou Delight or Fear
Or Longing — and is that for us
Or values more severe?

Let change transfuse all other Traits
Enact all other Blame
But deign this least certificate —
That thou shalt be the same.

The Love a Life can show Below
Is but a filament, I know,
Of that diviner thing
That faints upon the face of Noon —
And smites the Tinder in the Sun —
And hinders Gabriel’s Wing —

‘Tis this — in Music — hints and sways —
And far abroad on Summer days —
Distils uncertain pain —
‘Tis this enamors in the East —
And tints the Transit in the West
With harrowing Iodine —

‘Tis this — invites

The Luxury to apprehend
The Luxury ‘twould be
To look at Thee a single time
An Epicure of Me

In whatsoever Presence makes
Till for a further Food
I scarcely recollect to starve
So first am I supplied —

The Luxury to meditate
The Luxury it was
To banguet on thy Countenance
A Sumptuousness bestows

On plainer Days, whose Table far
As Certainty can see
Is laden with a single Crumb
The Consciousness of Thee.

The Malay — took the Pearl —
Not — I — the Earl —
I — feared the Sea — too much
Unsanctified — to touch —

Praying that I might be
Worthy — the Destiny —
The Swarthy fellow swam —
And bore my Jewel — Home —

Home to the Hut! What lot
Had I — the Jewel — got —
Borne on a Dusky Breasty —
I had not deemed a Vest
Of Amber — fit —

The Negro

The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die —
‘Tis deemed a privilege to choose —
‘Twas Major Andre’s Way —

When Choice of Life — is past —
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate —

How small in those who live —

The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles —
How “they are Dying mostly — now” —
And Customs at “St. James”!

The Martyr Poets — did not tell —
But wrought their Pang in syllable —
That when their mortal name be numb —
Their mortal fate — encourage Some —

The Martyr Painters — never spoke —
Bequeathing — rather — to their Work —
That when their conscious fingers cease —
Some seek in Art — the Art of Peace —