Emily Dickinson

The Merchant of the Picturesque
A Counter has and sales
But is within or negative
Precisely as the calls —
To Children he is small in price
And large in courtesy —
It suits him better than a check
Their artless currency —
Of Counterfeits he is so shy
Do one advance so near
As to behold his ample flight —
-Emily Dickinson

The Mind lives on the Heart
Like any Parasite —
If that is full of Meat
The Mind is fat.

But if the Heart omit
Emaciate the Wit —
The Aliment of it
So absolute.
-Emily Dickinson

The Missing All — prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge —
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed —
‘Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
For Curiosity.
-Emily Dickinson

The mob within the heart
Police cannot suppress
The riot given at the first
Is authorized as peace

Uncertified of scene
Or signified of sound
But growing like a hurricane
In a congenial ground.
-Emily Dickinson

The Months have ends — the Years — a knot —
No Power can untie
To stretch a little further
A Skein of Misery —

The Earth lays back these tired lives
In her mysterious Drawers —
Too tenderly, that any doubt
An ultimate Repose —

The manner of the Children —
Who weary of the Day —
Themself — the noisy Plaything
They cannot put away —

The Moon is distant from the Sea —
And yet, with Amber Hands —
She leads Him — docile as a Boy —
Along appointed Sands —

He never misses a Degree —
Obedient to Her Eye
He comes just so far — toward the Town —
Just so far — goes away —

Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand —
And mine — the distant Sea —
Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me —

The Moon upon her fluent Route
Defiant of a Road —
The Star’s Etruscan Argument
Substantiate a God —

If Aims impel these Astral Ones
The ones allowed to know
Know that which makes them as forgot
As Dawn forgets them — now —
-Emily Dickinson

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below —

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known —

Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —

And what a privilege

The Morning after Woe —
‘Tis frequently the Way —
Surpasses all that rose before —
For utter Jubilee —

As Nature did not care —
And piled her Blossoms on —
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon —

The Birds declaim their Tunes —
Pronouncing every word
Like Hammers — Did they know they fell
Like Litanies of Lead —

On here and there — a creature —
They’d modify the Glee
To fit some Crucifixal Clef —
Some

The morns are meeker than they were —
The nuts are getting brown —
The berry’s cheek is plumper —
The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf —
The field a scarlet gown —
Lest I should be old fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.
-Emily Dickinson

The most important population
Unnoticed dwell,
They have a heaven each instant
Not any hell.

Their names, unless you know them,
‘Twere useless tell.
Of bumble-bees and other nations
The grass is full.
-Emily Dickinson

The most pathetic thing I do
Is play I hear from you —
I make believe until my Heart
Almost believes it too
But when I break it with the news
You knew it was not true
I wish I had not broken it —
Goliah — so would you —
-Emily Dickinson

The most triumphant Bird I ever knew or met
Embarked upon a twig today
And till Dominion set
I famish to behold so eminent a sight
And sang for nothing scrutable
But intimate Delight.
Retired, and resumed his transitive Estate —
To what delicious Accident
Does finest Glory fit!
-Emily Dickinson

The Mountains — grow unnoticed —
Their Purple figures rise
Without attempt — Exhaustion —
Assistance — or Applause —

In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun — with just delight
Looks long — and last — and golden —
For fellowship — at night —
-Emily Dickinson

The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his tremendous Chair —
His observation omnifold,
His inquest, everywhere —

The Seasons played around his knees
Like Children round a sire —
Grandfather of the Days is He
Of Dawn, the Ancestor —
-Emily Dickinson

The Mountains stood in Haze —
The Valleys stopped below
And went or waited as they liked
The River and the Sky.

At leisure was the Sun —
His interests of Fire
A little from remark withdrawn —
The Twilight spoke the Spire,

So soft upon the Scene
The Act of evening fell
We felt how neighborly a Thing
Was the Invisible.
-Emily Dickinson

The murmuring of Bees, has ceased
But murmuring of some
Posterior, prophetic,
Has simultaneous come.
The lower metres of the Year
When Nature’s laugh is done
The Revelations of the Book
Whose Genesis was June.
Appropriate Creatures to her change
The Typic Mother sends
As Accent fades to interval
With separating Friends
Till what we speculate, has been
And thoughts we will not show
More intimate with us become
Than Persons, that we know.

The Murmur of a Bee
A Witchcraft — yieldeth me —
If any ask me why —
‘Twere easier to die —
Than tell —

The Red upon the Hill
Taketh away my will —
If anybody sneer —
Take care — for God is here —
That’s all.

The Breaking of the Day
Addeth to my Degree —
If any ask me how —
Artist — who drew me so —
Must tell!

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants —
At Evening, it is not —
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop upon a Spot

As if it tarried always
And yet its whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay
And fleeter than a Tare —

‘Tis Vegetation’s Juggler —
The Germ of Alibi —
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie —

I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit —
This surreptitious scion
Of

The name — of it — is “Autumn” —
The hue — of it — is Blood —
An Artery — upon the Hill —
A Vein — along the Road —

Great Globules — in the Alleys —
And Oh, the Shower of Stain —
When Winds — upset the Basin —
And spill the Scarlet Rain —

It sprinkles Bonnets — far below —
It gathers ruddy Pools —
Then — eddies like a Rose — away

The nearest Dream recedes — unrealized —
The Heaven we chase,
Like the June Bee — before the School Boy,
Invites the Race —
Stoops — to an easy Clover —
Dips — evades — teases — deploys —
Then — to the Royal Clouds
Lifts his light Pinnace —
Heedless of the Boy —
Staring — bewildered — at the mocking sky —
Homesick for steadfast Honey —
Ah, the Bee flies not
That brews that rare variety!

The Night was wide, and furnished scant
With but a single Star —
That often as a Cloud it met —
Blew out itself — for fear —

The Wind pursued the little Bush —
And drove away the Leaves
November left — then clambered up
And fretted in the Eaves —

No Squirrel went abroad —
A Dog’s belated feet
Like intermittent Plush, he heard
Adown the empty Street —

To feel if Blinds be fast —
And closer to the

The Notice that is called the Spring
Is but a month from here —
Put up my Heart thy Hoary work
And take a Rosy Chair.

Not any House the Flowers keep —
The Birds enamor Care —
Our salary the longest Day
Is nothing but a Bier.
-Emily Dickinson

The ones that disappeared are back
The Phoebe and the Crow
Precisely as in March is heard
The curtness of the Jay —
Be this an Autumn or a Spring
My wisdom loses way
One side of me the nuts are ripe
The other side is May.
-Emily Dickinson

The One who could repeat the Summer day —
Were greater than itself — though He
Minutest of Mankind should be —

And He — could reproduce the Sun —
At period of going down —
The Lingering — and the Stain — I mean —

When Orient have been outgrown
And Occident — become Unknown —
His Name — remain —
-Emily