Emily Dickinson

Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!

Who never climbed the weary league —
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro’s shore?

How many Legions overcome —
The Emperor will say?
How many Colors taken
On Revolution Day?

How many Bullets bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write “Promoted”
On this Soldier’s brow!
-Emily Dickinson

Who never wanted — maddest Joy
Remains to him unknown —
The Banquet of Abstemiousness
Defaces that of Wine —

Within its reach, though yet ungrasped
Desire’s perfect Goal —
No nearer — lest the Actual —
Should disentrall thy soul —
-Emily Dickinson

Who occupies this House?
A Stranger I must judge
Since No one know His Circumstance —
‘Tis well the name and age

Are writ upon the Door
Or I should fear to pause
Where not so much as Honest Dog
Approach encourages.

It seems a curious Town —
Some Houses very old,
Some — newly raised this Afternoon,
Were I compelled to build

It should not be among
Inhabitants so still
But where the Birds assemble
And Boys were possible.

Before Myself was born
‘Twas settled,

Who saw no Sunrise cannot say
The Countenance ‘twould be.
Who guess at seeing, guess at loss
Of the Ability.

The Emigrant of Light, it is
Afflicted for the Day.
The Blindness that beheld and blest —
And could not find its Eye.
-Emily Dickinson

Whose Pink career may have a close
Portentous as our own, who knows?
To imitate these Neighbors fleet
In awe and innocence, were meet.
-Emily Dickinson

Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled —
And no one made reply.

Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again —
Whose are the beds — the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?

‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest —
A little further on —
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist —
Little Leontoden.

‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster —
Anemone, and Bell —
Bartsia,

Whose cheek is this?
What rosy face
Has lost a blush today?
I found her — “pleiad” — in the woods
And bore her safe away.

Robins, in the tradition
Did cover such with leaves,
But which the cheek —
And which the pall
My scrutiny deceives.
-Emily Dickinson

Who were “the Father and the Son”
We pondered when a child,
And what had they to do with us
And when portentous told

With inference appalling
By Childhood fortified
We thought, at least they are no worse
Than they have been described.

Who are “the Father and the Son”
Did we demand Today
“The Father and the Son” himself
Would doubtless specify —

But had they the felicity
When we desired to know.
We better Friends had been, perhaps,
Than time ensue to

Why — do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing — too loud?
But — I can say a little “Minor”
Timid as a Bird!

Wouldn’t the Angels try me —
Just — once — more —
Just — see — if I troubled them —
But don’t — shut the door!

Oh, if I — were the Gentleman
In the “White Robe” —
And they — were the little Hand — that knocked —
Could — I

Why make it doubt — it hurts it so —
So sick — to guess —
So strong — to know —
So brave — upon its little Bed
To tell the very last They said
Unto Itself — and smile — And shake —
For that dear — distant — dangerous — Sake —
But — the Instead — the Pinching fear
That Something — it did do — or dare —
Offend the Vision — and

Why should we hurry — why indeed?
When every way we fly
We are molested equally
By immortality.
No respite from the inference
That this which is begun,
Though where its labors lie
A bland uncertainty
Besets the sight
This mighty night —
-Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile — the Winds —
To a Heart in port —
Done with the Compass —
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden —
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor — Tonight —
In Thee!
-Emily Dickinson

Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!
-Emily Dickinson

Winter is good — his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World —

Generic as a Quarry
And hearty — as a Rose —
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
-Emily Dickinson

Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring.
-Emily Dickinson

Witchcraft has not a Pedigree
‘Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death —
-Emily Dickinson

With Pinions of Disdain
The soul can farther fly
Than any feather specified
in Ornithology —
It wafts this sordid Flesh
Beyond its dull — control
And during its electric gale —
The body is a soul —
instructing by the same —
How little work it be —
To put off filaments like this
for immortality
-Emily Dickinson

Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel —
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As ’twere a travelling Mill —

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose —
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted —
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres —
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, ’twere we —
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity —

But He,

Within my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered thro’ the village —
Sauntered as soft away!
So unsuspected Violets
Within the meadows go —
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago!
-Emily Dickinson

Within that little Hive
Such Hints of Honey lay
As made Reality a Dream
And Dreams, Reality —
-Emily Dickinson

Within thy Grave!
Oh no, but on some other flight —
Thou only camest to mankind
To rend it with Good night —
-Emily Dickinson

Without a smile — Without a Throe
A Summer’s soft Assemblies go
To their entrancing end
Unknown — for all the times we met —
Estranged, however intimate —
What a dissembling Friend —
-Emily Dickinson

Without this – there is nought –
All other Riches be
As is the Twitter of a Bird –
Heard opposite the Sea –

I could not care – to gain
A lesser than the Whole –
For did not this include themself –
As Seams – include the Ball?

I wished a way might be
My Heart to subdivide –
‘Twould magnify – the Gratitude –
And not reduce – the Gold –
-Emily Dickinson

With sweetness unabated
Informed the hour had come
With no remiss of triumph
The autumn started home

Her home to be with Nature
As competition done
By influential kinsmen
Invited to return —

In supplements of Purple
An adequate repast
In heavenly reviewing
Her residue be past —
-Emily Dickinson