Emily Dickinson

They talk as slow as Legends grow
No mushroom is their mind
But foliage of sterility
Too stolid for the wind —

They laugh as wise as Plots of Wit
Predestined to unfold
The point with bland prevision
Portentously untold.
-Emily Dickinson

They won’t frown always — some sweet Day
When I forget to tease —
They’ll recollect how cold I looked
And how I just said “Please.”

Then They will hasten to the Door
To call the little Girl
Who cannot thank Them for the Ice
That filled the lisping full.
-Emily Dickinson

This Bauble was preferred of Bees —
By Butterflies admired
At Heavenly — Hopeless Distances —
Was justified of Bird —

Did Noon — enamel — in Herself
Was Summer to a Score
Who only knew of Universe —
It had created Her.
-Emily Dickinson

This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life
I mention it to you,
When Sunrise through a fissure drop
The Day must follow too.

If we demur, its gaping sides
Disclose as ’twere a Tomb
Ourself am lying straight wherein
The Favorite of Doom.

When it has just contained a Life
Then, Darling, it will close
And yet so bolder every Day
So turbulent it grows

I’m tempted half to stitch it up
With a remaining Breath
I should not miss in yielding, though
To Him,

This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men —

How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.

Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be —
Attended by a single Hound
Its own identity.

This dirty — little — Heart
Is freely mine.
I won it with a Bun —
A Freckled shrine —

But eligibly fair
To him who sees
The Visage of the Soul
And not the knees.
-Emily Dickinson

This docile one inter
While we who dare to live
Arraign the sunny brevity
That sparkled to the Grave.

On her departing span
No wilderness remain
As dauntless in the House of Death
As if it were her own —
-Emily Dickinson

This Dust, and its Feature —
Accredited — Today —
Will in a second Future —
Cease to identify —

This Mind, and its measure —
A too minute Area
For its enlarged inspection’s
Comparison — appear —

This World, and its species
A too concluded show
For its absorbed Attention’s
Remotest scrutiny —
-Emily Dickinson

This heart that broke so long —
These feet that never flagged —
This faith that watched for star in vain,
Give gently to the dead —

Hound cannot overtake the Hare
That fluttered panting, here —
Nor any schoolboy rob the nest
Tenderness builded there.
-Emily Dickinson

This is a Blossom of the Brain —
A small — italic Seed
Lodged by Design or Happening
The Spirit fructified —

Shy as the Wind of his Chambers
Swift as a Freshet’s Tongue
So of the Flower of the Soul
Its process is unknown.

When it is found, a few rejoice
The Wise convey it Home
Carefully cherishing the spot
If other Flower become.

When it is lost, that Day shall be
The Funeral of God,
Upon his Breast, a closing Soul
The

This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me —
The simple News that Nature told —
With tender Majesty

Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see —
For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen —
Judge tenderly — of Me
-Emily Dickinson

This — is the land — the Sunset washes —
These — are the Banks of the Yellow Sea —
Where it rose — or whither it rushes —
These — are the Western Mystery!

Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales —
Merchantmen — poise upon Horizons —
Dip — and vanish like Orioles!
-Emily Dickinson

This is the place they hoped before,
Where I am hoping now.
The seed of disappointment grew
Within a capsule gay,
Too distant to arrest the feet
That walk this plank of balm —
Before them lies escapeless sea —
The way is closed they came.

-Emily Dickinson

This Me — that walks and works — must die,
Some fair or stormy Day,
Adversity if it may be
Or wild prosperity
The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my mind was born
Not even a Prognostic’s push
Can make a Dent thereon —
-Emily Dickinson

This Merit hath the worst —
It cannot be again —
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown Her furthest Stone —

The Maimed may pause, and breathe,
And glance securely round —
The Deer attracts no further
Than it resists — the Hound —
-Emily Dickinson

This quiet Dust was Gentleman and Ladies
And Lads and Girls —
Was laughter and ability and Sighing
And Frocks and Curls.

This Passive Place a Summer’s nimble mansion
Where Bloom and Bees
Exists an Oriental Circuit
Then cease, like these —
-Emily Dickinson

This slow Day moved along —
I heard its axles go
As if they could not hoist themselves
They hated motion so —

I told my soul to come —
It was no use to wait —
We went and played and came again
And it was out of sight —
-Emily Dickinson

This that would greet — an hour ago —
Is quaintest Distance — now —
Had it a Guest from Paradise —
Nor glow, would it, nor bow —

Had it a notice from the Noon
Nor beam would it nor warm —
Match me the Silver Reticence —
Match me the Solid Calm —
-Emily Dickinson

This was a Poet — It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings —
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door —
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it — before —

Of Pictures, the Discloser —
The Poet — it is He —
Entitles Us — by Contrast —
To ceaseless Poverty —

Of portion — so unconscious —
The Robbing — could not harm —
Himself — to Him — a Fortune —
Exterior

This was in the White of the Year —
That — was in the Green —
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As Daisies now to be seen —

Looking back is best that is left
Or if it be — before —
Retrospection is Prospect’s half,
Sometimes, almost more.
-Emily Dickinson

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond —
Invisible, as Music —
But positive, as Sound —
It beckons, and it baffles —
Philosophy — don’t know —
And through a Riddle, at the last —
Sagacity, must go —
To guess it, puzzles scholars —
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown —
Faith slips — and laughs, and rallies —
Blushes, if any see —
Plucks at a twig of Evidence —
And asks a

Tho’ I get home how late — how late —
So I get home – ’twill compensate —
Better will be the Ecstasy
That they have done expecting me —
When Night — descending — dumb — and dark —
They hear my unexpected knock —
Transporting must the moment be —
Brewed from decades of Agony!

To think just how the fire will burn —
Just how long-cheated eyes will turn —
To wonder what myself will say,
And

Tho’ my destiny be Fustian —
Hers be damask fine —
Tho’ she wear a silver apron —
I, a less divine —

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil —
And no Reapers stand!

Those cattle smaller than a Bee
That herd upon the eye —
Whose tillage is the passing Crumb —
Those Cattle are the Fly —
Of Barns for Winter — blameless —
Extemporaneous stalls
They found to our objection —
On eligible walls —
Reserving the presumption
To suddenly descend
And gallop on the Furniture —
Or odiouser offend —
Of their peculiar calling
Unqualified to judge
To Nature we remand them
To justify or scourge —

Those — dying then,
Knew where they went —
They went to God’s Right Hand —
That Hand is amputated now
And God cannot be found —

The abdication of Belief
Makes the Behavior small —
Better an ignis fatuus
Than no illume at all —
-Emily Dickinson