Emily Dickinson

We pray — to Heaven —
We prate — of Heaven —
Relate — when Neighbors die —
At what o’clock to heaven — they fled —
Who saw them — Wherefore fly?

Is Heaven a Place — a Sky — a Tree?
Location’s narrow way is for Ourselves —
Unto the Dead
There’s no Geography —

But State — Endowal — Focus —
Where — Omnipresence — fly?
-Emily Dickinson

We see — Comparatively —
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided — Yesterday —

This Morning’s finer Verdict —
Makes scarcely worth the toil —
A furrow — Our Cordillera —
Our Apennine — a Knoll —

Perhaps ’tis kindly — done us —
The Anguish — and the loss —
The wrenching — for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us —

To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin —
The waking in a

We send the Wave to find the Wave —
An Errand so divine,
The Messenger enamored too,
Forgetting to return,
We make the wise distinction still,
Soever made in vain,
The sagest time to dam the sea is when the sea is gone —
-Emily Dickinson

We shall find the Cube of the Rainbow.
Of that, there is no doubt.
But the Arc of a Lover’s conjecture
Eludes the finding out.
-Emily Dickinson

We should not mind so small a flower —
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.

So spicy her Carnations nod —
So drunken, reel her Bees —
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees —

That whoso sees this little flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.
-Emily Dickinson

We shun because we prize her Face
Lest sight’s ineffable disgrace
Our Adoration stain
-Emily Dickinson

We shun it ere it comes,
Afraid of Joy,
Then sue it to delay
And lest it fly,
Beguile it more and more —
May not this be
Old Suitor Heaven,
Like our dismay at thee?
-Emily Dickinson

We talked as Girls do —
Fond, and late —
We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave —
Of ours, none affair —

We handled Destinies, as cool —
As we — Disposers — be —
And God, a Quiet Party
To our Authority —

But fondest, dwelt upon Ourself
As we eventual — be —
When Girls to Women, softly raised
We — occupy — Degree —

We parted with a contract
To cherish, and to write
But Heaven made

We talked with each other about each other
Though neither of us spoke —
We were listening to the seconds’ Races
And the Hoofs of the Clock —
Pausing in Front of our Palsied Faces
Time compassion took —
Arks of Reprieve he offered to us —
Ararats — we took —
-Emily Dickinson

We thirst at first — ’tis Nature’s Act —
And later — when we die —
A little Water supplicate —
Of fingers going by —

It intimates the finer want —
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West —
Termed Immortality —
-Emily Dickinson

We wear our sober Dresses when we die,
But Summer, frilled as for a Holiday
Adjourns her sigh —
-Emily Dickinson

We’ll pass without the parting
So to spare
Certificate of Absence —
Deeming where

I left Her I could find Her
If I tried —
This way, I keep from missing
Those that died.
-Emily Dickinson

Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful — as to the village —
Tranquil — as to repose —
Chastened — as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious —
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet —
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The

Were it but Me that gained the Height —
Were it but They, that failed!
How many things the Dying play
Might they but live, they would!
-Emily Dickinson

Were it to be the last
How infinite would be
What we did not suspect was marked —
Our final interview.
-Emily Dickinson

Were natural mortal lady
Who had so little time
To pack her trunk and order
The great exchange of clime —

How rapid, how momentous —
What exigencies were —
But nature will be ready
And have an hour to spare.

To make some trifle fairer
That was too fair before —
Enchanting by remaining,
And by departure more.
-Emily Dickinson

Wert Thou but ill — that I might show thee
How long a Day I could endure
Though thine attention stop not on me
Nor the least signal, Me assure —

Wert Thou but Stranger in ungracious country —
And Mine — the Door
Thou paused at, for a passing bounty —
No More —

Accused — wert Thou — and Myself — Tribunal —
Convicted — Sentenced — Ermine — not to Me
Half the Condition, thy Reverse

What I can do — I will —
Though it be little as a Daffodil —
That I cannot — must be
Unknown to possibility —
-Emily Dickinson

What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth —
No brimming Tankards flow —
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
-Emily Dickinson

What I see not, I better see —
Through Faith — my Hazel Eye
Has periods of shutting —
But, No lid has Memory —

For frequent, all my sense obscured
I equally behold
As someone held a light unto
The Features so beloved —

And I arise — and in my Dream —
Do Thee distinguished Grace —
Till jealous Daylight interrupt —
And mar thy perfectness —
-Emily Dickinson

What Soft — Cherubic Creatures —
These Gentlewomen are —
One would as soon assault a Plush —
Or violate a Star —

Such Dimity Convictions —
A Horror so refined
Of freckled Human Nature —
Of Deity — ashamed —

It’s such a common — Glory —
A Fisherman’s — Degree —
Redemption — Brittle Lady —
Be so — ashamed of Thee —
-Emily Dickinson

What Twigs We held by —
Oh the View
When Life’s swift River striven through
We pause before a further plunge
To take Momentum —
As the Fringe

Upon a former Garment shows
The Garment cast,
Our Props disclose
So scant, so eminently small
Of Might to help, so pitiful
To sink, if We had labored, fond
The diligence were not more blind

How scant, by everlasting Light
The Discs that satisfied Our Sight —
How dimmer than a Saturn’s Bar
The Things esteemed, for

What shall I do when the Summer troubles —
What, when the Rose is ripe —
What when the Eggs fly off in Music
From the Maple Keep?

What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup
Drop a Tune on me —
When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup
What will become of me?

Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets
And the Berries stare
How can I bear their jocund Faces
Thou from Here, so far?

‘Twouldn’t afflict

What care the Dead, for Chanticleer —
What care the Dead for Day?
‘Tis late your Sunrise vex their face —
And Purple Ribaldry — of Morning

Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool —

What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate —
And knew One Bird a Tune —

Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds

What did They do since I saw Them?
Were They industrious?
So many questions to put Them
Have I the eagerness

That could I snatch Their Faces
That could Their lips reply
Not till the last was answered
Should They start for the Sky.

Not if Their Party were waiting,
Not if to talk with Me
Were to Them now, Homesickness
After Eternity.

Not if the Just suspect me
And offer a Reward
Would I restore my Booty
To that Bold Person, God —
-Emily