Emily Dickinson

Could mortal lip divine
The undeveloped Freight
Of a delivered syllable
‘Twould crumble with the weight.
-Emily Dickinson

Could that sweet Darkness where they dwell
Be once disclosed to us
The clamor for their loveliness
Would burst the Loneliness –
-Emily Dickinson

Count not that far that can be had,
Though sunset lie between —
Nor that adjacent, that beside,
Is further than the sun.

-Emily Dickinson

Crisis is a Hair
Toward which the forces creep
Past which forces retrograde
If it come in sleep

To suspend the Breath
Is the most we can
Ignorant is it Life or Death
Nicely balancing.

Let an instant push
Or an Atom press
Or a Circle hesitate
In Circumference

It – may jolt the Hand
That adjusts the Hair
That secures Eternity
From presenting – Here –
-Emily Dickinson

Crisis is sweet and yet the Heart
Upon the hither side
Has Dowers of Prospective
To Denizens denied

Inquire of the closing Rose
Which rapture she preferred
And she will point you sighing
To her rescinded Bud.
-Emily Dickinson

Crumbling is not an instant’s Act
A fundamental pause
Dilapidation’s processes
Are organized Decays.

‘Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul
A Cuticle of Dust
A Borer in the Axis
An Elemental Rust —

Ruin is formal — Devil’s work
Consecutive and slow —
Fail in an instant, no man did
Slipping — is Crash’s law.
-Emily Dickinson

Dear March — Come in —
How glad I am —
I hoped for you before —

Put down your Hat —
You must have walked —
How out of Breath you are —
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me —
I have so much to tell —

I got your Letter, and the Birds —
The Maples never knew that you were coming — till I called
I declare — how Red their Faces grew

Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
“Dissolve” says Death – The Spirit “Sir
I have another Trust” –

Death doubts it – Argues from the Ground –
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.
-Emily Dickinson

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.

Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.

Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill —
Wring the tree and leave it,
‘Tis the vermin’s will.
-Emily Dickinson

Death is potential to that Man
Who dies — and to his friend –
Beyond that — unconspicuous
To Anyone but God –

Of these Two — God remembers
The longest — for the friend –
Is integral — and therefore
Itself dissolved — of God –
-Emily Dickinson

Death is the supple Suitor
That wins at last –
It is a stealthy Wooing
Conducted first
By pallid innuendoes
And dim approach
But brave at last with Bugles
And a bisected Coach
It bears away in triumph
To Troth unknown
And Kindred as responsive
As Porcelain.
-Emily Dickinson

Death leaves Us homesick, who behind,
Except that it is gone
Are ignorant of its Concern
As if it were not born.

Through all their former Places, we
Like Individuals go
Who something lost, the seeking for
Is all that’s left them, now –
-Emily Dickinson

Death’s Waylaying not the sharpest
Of the thefts of Time —
There Marauds a sorer Robber,
Silence — is his name —
No Assault, nor any Menace
Doth betoken him.
But from Life’s consummate Cluster —
He supplants the Balm.
-Emily Dickinson

Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With “This was last Her fingers did” —
Industrious until —

The Thimble weighed too heavy —
The stitches stopped — by themselves —
And then ’twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves —

A Book I have — a friend gave —
Whose Pencil — here and there —
Had notched the place that

Death warrants are supposed to be
An enginery of equity
A merciful mistake
A pencil in an Idol’s Hand
A Devotee has oft consigned
To Crucifix or Block
-Emily Dickinson

Declaiming Waters none may dread —
But Waters that are still
Are so for that most fatal cause
In Nature — they are full –
-Emily Dickinson

Defrauded I a Butterfly –
The lawful Heir – for Thee –
-Emily Dickinson

Delayed till she had ceased to know —
Delayed till in its vest of snow
Her loving bosom lay —
An hour behind the fleeting breath —
Later by just an hour than Death —
Oh lagging Yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it would be —
Could but a crier of the joy
Have climbed the distant hill —
Had not the bliss so slow a pace
Who knows but this surrendered face
Were undefeated still?

Oh if there may

Delight — becomes pictorial —
When viewed through Pain —
More fair — because impossible
Than any gain —

The Mountain — at a given distance —
In Amber — lies —
Approached — the Amber flits — a little —
And That’s — the Skies —
-Emily Dickinson

Delight is as the flight —
Or in the Ratio of it,
As the Schools would say —
The Rainbow’s way —
A Skein
Flung colored, after Rain,
Would suit as bright,
Except that flight
Were Aliment —

“If it would last”
I asked the East,
When that Bent Stripe
Struck up my childish
Firmament —
And I, for glee,
Took Rainbows, as the common way,
And empty Skies
The Eccentricity —

And so with Lives —
And so with Butterflies —
Seen magic — through the fright
That they

Denial — is the only fact
Perceived by the Denied —
Whose Will — a numb significance —
The Day the Heaven died —

And all the Earth strove common round —
Without Delight, or Beam —
What Comfort was it Wisdom — was —
The spoiler of Our Home?
-Emily Dickinson

Delight’s Despair at setting
Is that Delight is less
Than the sufficing Longing
That so impoverish.

Enchantment’s Perihelion
Mistaken oft has been
For the Authentic orbit
Of its Anterior Sun.
-Emily Dickinson

Departed — to the Judgment —
A Mighty Afternoon —
Great Clouds — like Ushers — learning —
Creation — looking on –

The Flesh — Surrendered — Cancelled —
The Bodiless — begun —
Two Worlds — like Audiences — disperse –
And leave the Soul — alone —
-Emily Dickinson

Deprived of other Banquet,
I entertained Myself —
At first — a scant nutrition —
An insufficient Loaf —

But grown by slender addings
To so esteemed a size
‘Tis sumptuous enough for me —
And almost to suffice

A Robin’s famine able —
Red Pilgrim, He and I —
A Berry from our table
Reserve — for charity —
-Emily Dickinson