Emily Dickinson

The worthlessness of Earthly things
The Ditty is that Nature Sings —
And then — enforces their delight
Till Synods are inordinate —
-Emily Dickinson

The Zeroes — taught us — Phosphorous —
We learned to like the Fire
By playing Glaciers — when a Boy —
And Tinder — guessed — by power
Of Opposite — to balance Odd —
If White — a Red — must be!
Paralysis — our Primer — dumb —
Unto Vitality!
-Emily Dickinson

Their Barricade against the Sky
The martial Trees withdraw
And with a Flag at every turn
Their Armies are no more.

What Russet Halts in Nature’s March
They indicate or cause
An inference of Mexico
Effaces the Surmise —

Recurrent to the After Mind
That Massacre of Air —
The Wound that was not Wound nor Scar
But Holidays of War
-Emily Dickinson

Their Height in Heaven comforts not —
Their Glory — nought to me —
‘Twas best imperfect — as it was —
I’m finite — I can’t see —

The House of Supposition —
The Glimmering Frontier that
Skirts the Acres of Perhaps —
To Me — shows insecure —

The Wealth I had — contented me —
If ’twas a meaner size —
Then I had counted it until
It pleased my narrow Eyes —

Better than larger values —
That

Their dappled importunity
Disparage or dismiss —
The Obloquies of Etiquette
Are obsolete to Bliss —
-Emily Dickinson

Themself are all I have —
Myself a freckled — be —
I thought you’d choose a Velvet Cheek
Or one of Ivory —
Would you — instead of Me?
-Emily Dickinson

There are two Mays
And then a Must
And after that a Shall.
How infinite the compromise
That indicates I will!
-Emily Dickinson

There are two Ripenings — one — of sight —
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground —
A homelier maturing —
A process in the Bur —
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air.
-Emily Dickinson

There came a Day at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me —
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections — be —

The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new —

The time was scarce profaned, by speech —
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe — of our Lord —

Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune

There came a wind like a bugle
It quivered through the GRASS,
And a green chill upon the heat

So ominous did pass
We barred the windows and the doors
As from an emerald GHOST
The doom’s electric moccasin
That very instant passed.

On a strange mob of panting trees,
And fences fled away, and rivers where
The houses ran the living looked that day (THAT DAY).
The bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much

There comes an hour when begging stops,
When the long interceding lips
Perceive their prayer is vain.
“Thou shalt not” is a kinder sword
Than from a disappointing God
“Disciple, call again.”
-Emily Dickinson

There comes a warning like a spy
A shorter breath of Day
A stealing that is not a stealth
And Summers are away —
-Emily Dickinson

There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed —
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed

As should a Face supposed the Grave’s
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return —

Two Seasons, it is said, exist —
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost —

May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the

There is a Shame of Nobleness —
Confronting Sudden Pelf —
A finer Shame of Ecstasy —
Convicted of Itself —

A best Disgrace — a Brave Man feels —
Acknowledged — of the Brave —
One More — “Ye Blessed” — to be told —
But that’s — Behind the Grave —
-Emily Dickinson

There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt —
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait —

Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness — is Noon.
-Emily Dickinson

There is a finished feeling
Experienced at Graves —
A leisure of the Future —
A Wilderness of Size.

By Death’s bold Exhibition
Preciser what we are
And the Eternal function
Enabled to infer.
-Emily Dickinson

There is a flower that Bees prefer —
And Butterflies — desire —
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird — aspire —

And Whatsoever Insect pass —
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her — capacity —

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture —
Or Rhododendron — worn —

She doth not wait for June —
Before the World be Green —
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against

There is a morn by men unseen —
Whose maids upon remoter green
Keep their Seraphic May —
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name —
Employ their holiday.

Here to light measure, move the feet
Which walk no more the village street —
Nor by the wood are found —
Here are the birds that sought the sun
When last year’s distaff idle hung
And summer’s brows were bound.

Ne’er saw I such

There is an arid Pleasure —
As different from Joy —
As Frost is different from Dew —
Like element — are they —

Yet one — rejoices Flowers —
And one — the Flowers abhor —
The finest Honey — curdled —
Is worthless — to the Bee —
-Emily Dickinson

There is another Loneliness
That many die without —
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot

But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral —
-Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields –
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
-Emily

There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance —
So Memory can step
Around — across — upon it —
As one within a Swoon —
Goes safely — where an open eye —
Would drop Him — Bone by Bone.
-Emily Dickinson

There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself —
Finite infinity.
-Emily Dickinson

There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man —
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again —
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun —
Wherever roams the day —
There is its noiseless onset —
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot!”