Emily Dickinson

The only Ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in Mechlin — so —
He wore no sandal on his foot —
And stepped like flakes of snow —

His Gait — was soundless, like the Bird —
But rapid — like the Roe —
His fashions, quaint, Mosaic —
Or haply, Mistletoe —

His conversation — seldom —
His laughter, like the Breeze —
That dies away in Dimples
Among the pensive Trees —

Our interview — was transient —
Of

The Only News I know
Is Bulletins all Day
From Immortality.

The Only Shows I see —
Tomorrow and Today —
Perchance Eternity —

The Only One I meet
Is God — The Only Street —
Existence — This traversed

If Other News there be —
Or Admirable Show —
I’ll tell it You —
-Emily Dickinson

The Opening and the Close
Of Being, are alike
Or differ, if they do,
As Bloom upon a Stalk.

That from an equal Seed
Unto an equal Bud
Go parallel, perfected
In that they have decayed.
-Emily Dickinson

The Outer — from the Inner
Derives its Magnitude —
‘Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according
As is the Central Mood —

The fine — unvarying Axis
That regulates the Wheel —
Though Spokes — spin — more conspicuous
And fling a dust — the while.

The Inner — paints the Outer —
The Brush without the Hand —
Its Picture publishes — precise —
As is the inner Brand —

On fine — Arterial Canvas —
A Cheek — perchance a Brow

The overtakelessness of those
Who have accomplished Death
Majestic is to me beyond
The majesties of Earth.

The soul her “Not at Home”
Inscribes upon the flesh —
And takes her fair aerial gait
Beyond the hope of touch.
-Emily Dickinson

The parasol is the umbrella’s daughter,
And associates with a fan
While her father abuts the tempest
And abridges the rain.

The former assists a siren
In her serene display;
But her father is borne and honored,
And borrowed to this day.
-Emily Dickinson

The Past is such a curious Creature
To look her in the Face
A Transport may receipt us
Or a Disgrace —

Unarmed if any meet her
I charge him fly
Her faded Ammunition
Might yet reply.
-Emily Dickinson

The pattern of the sun
Can fit but him alone
For sheen must have a Disk
To be a sun —
-Emily Dickinson

The pedigree of Honey
Does not concern the Bee,
Nor lineage of Ecstasy
Delay the Butterfly
On spangle journeys to the peak
Of some perceiveless thing –
The right of way to Tripoli
A more essential thing.

–

The Pedigree of Honey
Does not concern the Bee –
A Clover, any time, to him,
Is Aristocracy –
-Emily Dickinson

The Pile of Years is not so high
As when you came before
But it is rising every Day
From recollection’s Floor
And while by standing on my Heart
I still can reach the top
Efface the mountain with your face
And catch me ere I drop
-Emily Dickinson

The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate —
If vital Light

Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
-Emily Dickinson

The Popular Heart is a Cannon first —
Subsequent a Drum —
Bells for an Auxiliary
And an Afterward of Rum —

Not a Tomorrow to know its name
Nor a Past to stare —
Ditches for Realms and a Trip to Jail
For a Souvenir —
-Emily Dickinson

The power to be true to You,
Until upon my face
The Judgment push his Picture —
Presumptuous of Your Place —

Of This — Could Man deprive Me —
Himself — the Heaven excel —
Whose invitation — Yours reduced
Until it showed too small —
-Emily Dickinson

The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes —
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise —

The wrestle in her simple Throat
To hold the feeling down
That vanquished her — defeated Feat —
Was Fervor’s sudden Crown —

-Emily Dickinson

The Products of my Farm are these
Sufficient for my Own
And here and there a Benefit
Unto a Neighbor’s Bin.

With Us, ’tis Harvest all the Year
For when the Frosts begin
We just reverse the Zodiac
And fetch the Acres in.
-Emily Dickinson

The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, erect,
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Auger and the Carpenter —
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life —
A past of Plank and Nail
And slowness — then the Scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul.
-Emily Dickinson

The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art — To save —
Through Skill obtained in Themselves —
The Science of the Grave

No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution — in Himself —
That Man — be qualified

To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new —
Mistake Defeat for Death — Each time —
Till acclimated — to —

The pungent atom in the Air
Admits of no debate —
All that is named of Summer Days
Relinquished our Estate —

For what Department of Delight
As positive are we
As Limit of Dominion
Or Dams — of Ecstasy —
-Emily Dickinson

The rainbow never tells me
That gust and storm are by,
Yet is she more convincing
Than Philosophy.

My flowers turn from Forums —
Yet eloquent declare
What Cato couldn’t prove me
Except the birds were here!
-Emily Dickinson

The Rat is the concisest Tenant.
He pays no Rent.
Repudiates the Obligation —
On Schemes intent

Balking our Wit
To sound or circumvent —
Hate cannot harm
A Foe so reticent —
Neither Decree prohibit him —
Lawful as Equilibrium.
-Emily Dickinson

The Red — Blaze — is the Morning —
The Violet — is Noon —
The Yellow — Day — is falling —
And after that — is none —

But Miles of Sparks — at Evening —
Reveal the Width that burned —
The Territory Argent — that
Never yet — consumed —
-Emily Dickinson

The reticent volcano keeps
His never slumbering plan —
Confided are his projects pink
To no precarious man.

If nature will not tell the tale
Jehovah told to her
Can human nature not survive
Without a listener?

Admonished by her buckled lips
Let every babbler be
The only secret people keep
Is Immortality.
-Emily Dickinson

The Riddle we can guess
We speedily despise —
Not anything is stale so long
As Yesterday’s surprise —
-Emily Dickinson

The right to perish might be thought
An undisputed right —
Attempt it, and the Universe
Upon the opposite
Will concentrate its officers —
You cannot even die
But nature and mankind must pause
To pay you scrutiny.
-Emily Dickinson

The Road to Paradise is plain,
And holds scarce one.
Not that it is not firm
But we presume
A Dimpled Road
Is more preferred.
The Belles of Paradise are few —
Not me — nor you —
But unsuspected things —
Mines have no Wings.
-Emily Dickinson