Emily Dickinson

Warm in her Hand these accents lie
While faithful and afar
The Grace so awkward for her sake
Its fond subjection wear —
-Emily Dickinson

Water, is taught by thirst.
Land — by the Oceans passed.
Transport — by throe —
Peace — by its battles told —
Love, by Memorial Mold —
Birds, by the Snow.
-Emily Dickinson

Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep —
Its awful chamber open stands —
Its Curtains blandly sweep —
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades —
Whose Axis never comes.
-Emily Dickinson

We — Bee and I — live by the quaffing —
‘Tisn’t all Hock — with us —
Life has its Ale —
But it’s many a lay of the Dim Burgundy —
We chant — for cheer — when the Wines — fail —

Do we “get drunk”?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we “beat” our “Wife”?
I — never wed —
Bee — pledges his — in minute flagons —
Dainty — as the trees — on

We can but follow to the Sun —
As oft as He go down
He leave Ourselves a Sphere behind —
‘Tis mostly — following —

We go no further with the Dust
Than to the Earthen Door —
And then the Panels are reversed —
And we behold — no more.
-Emily Dickinson

We Cover Thee — Sweet Face —
Not that We tire of Thee —
But that Thyself fatigue of Us —
Remember — as Thou go —
We follow Thee until
Thou notice Us — no more —
And then — reluctant — turn away
To Con Thee o’er and o’er —

And blame the scanty love
We were Content to show —
Augmented — Sweet — a Hundred fold —
If Thou would’st take it — now —

We do not know the time we lose —
The awful moment is
And takes its fundamental place
Among the certainties —

A firm appearance still inflates
The card — the chance — the friend —
The spectre of solidities
Whose substances are sand —
-Emily Dickinson

We do not play on Graves —
Because there isn’t Room —
Besides — it isn’t even — it slants
And People come —

And put a Flower on it —
And hang their faces so —
We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop —
And crush our pretty play —

And so we move as far
As Enemies — away —
Just looking round to see how far
It is — Occasionally —

We don’t cry — Tim and I,
We are far too grand —
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend —

Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand —
Not to cry — Tim and I —
We are far too grand —

Nor to dream — he and me —
Do we condescend —
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end —

Tim — see Cottages —
But, Oh, so high!
Then

We dream — it is good we are dreaming —
It would hurt us — were we awake —
But since it is playing — kill us,
And we are playing — shriek —

What harm? Men die — externally —
It is a truth — of Blood —
But we — are dying in Drama —
And Drama — is never dead —

Cautious — We jar each other —
And either — open the eyes —
Lest

We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye —

A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —

And so of larger — Darkness —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out —

We introduce ourselves
To Planets and to Flowers
But with ourselves
Have etiquettes
Embarrassments
And awes
-Emily Dickinson

We learn it in Retreating
How vast an one
Was recently among us --
A Perished Sun

Endear in the departure
How doubly more
Than all the Golden presence
It was -- before -- 
               -Emily Dickinson

His Shoes are Purple --

He is new and high --

Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler.

Makes he Forests dry.

Knows the Adder Tongue his coming

And presents her Spot --

Stands the Sun so close and mighty

That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others --

Bold it were to die

With the Blue Birds exercising

On his British Sky.
---
We like March -- his shoes are Purple.

He is new and high --

Makes he

We lose — because we win —

Gamblers — recollecting which

Toss their dice again!

-Emily Dickinson

We met as Sparks — Diverging Flints
Sent various — scattered ways —
We parted as the Central Flint
Were cloven with an Adze —
Subsisting on the Light We bore
Before We felt the Dark —
A Flint unto this Day — perhaps —
But for that single Spark.
-Emily Dickinson

We miss Her, not because We see —
The Absence of an Eye —
Except its Mind accompany
Abridge Society

As slightly as the Routes of Stars —
Ourselves — asleep below —
We know that their superior Eyes
Include Us — as they go —
-Emily Dickinson

We miss a Kinsman more
When warranted to see
Than when withheld of Oceans
From possibility

A Furlong than a League
Inflicts a pricklier pain,
Till We, who smiled at Pyrenees —
Of Parishes, complain.
-Emily Dickinson

We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies —

The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King —
-Emily Dickinson

We never know we go when we are going —
We jest and shut the Door —
Fate — following — behind us bolts it —
And we accost no more —
-Emily Dickinson

We outgrow love, like other things
And put it in the Drawer —
Till it an Antique fashion shows —
Like Costumes Grandsires wore.
-Emily Dickinson

We play at Paste —
Till qualified, for Pearl —
Then, drop the Paste —
And deem ourself a fool —

The Shapes — though — were similar —
And our new Hands
Learned Gem-Tactics —
Practicing Sands —
-Emily Dickinson