Emily Dickinson

He lived the Life of Ambush
And went the way of Dusk
And now against his subtle name
There stands an Asterisk
As confident of him as we –
Impregnable we are –
The whole of Immortality intrenched
Within a star –
-Emily Dickinson

He outstripped Time with but a Bout,
He outstripped Stars and Sun
And then, unjaded, challenged God
In presence of the Throne.

And He and He in mighty List
Unto this present, run,
The larger Glory for the less
A just sufficient Ring.
-Emily Dickinson

He parts Himself — like Leaves —
And then — He closes up —
Then stands upon the Bonnet
Of Any Buttercup —

And then He runs against
And oversets a Rose —
And then does Nothing —
Then away upon a Jib — He goes —

And dangles like a Mote
Suspended in the Noon —
Uncertain — to return Below —
Or settle in the Moon —

What come of Him — at Night —
The privilege to say
Be limited

He preached upon “Breadth” till it argued him narrow –
The Broad are too broad to define
And of “Truth” until it proclaimed him a Liar –
The Truth never flaunted a Sign –

Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence
As Gold the Pyrites would shun –
What confusion would cover the innocent Jesus
To meet so enabled a Man!
-Emily

He put the Belt around my life
I heard the Buckle snap —
And turned away, imperial,
My Lifetime folding up —
Deliberate, as a Duke would do
A Kingdom’s Title Deed —
Henceforth, a Dedicated sort —
A Member of the Cloud.

Yet not too far to come at call —
And do the little Toils
That make the Circuit of the Rest —
And deal occasional smiles
To lives that stoop to notice mine —
And kindly ask it in

Her — “last Poems” —
Poets — ended —
Silver — perished — with her Tongue —
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman —
So divine —
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune —
Gushed too free for the Adoring —
From the Anglo-Florentine —
Late — the Praise —
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown —
Diadem — or Ducal Showing —
Be its Grave — sufficient

Her Grace is all she has —
And that, so least displays —
One Art to recognize, must be,
Another Art, to praise.
-Emily Dickinson

Her Losses make our Gains ashamed —
She bore Life’s empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Life’s empty Pack is heaviest,
As every Porter knows —
In vain to punish Honey —
It only sweeter grows.
-Emily Dickinson

Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way —
Carriages — Be Sure — and Guests — too —
But for Holiday

‘Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away —

Never Bride had such Assembling —
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead —
Garland be indeed —

Fitter Feet — of Her before us —
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow — or Trick of Lily
Possibly

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a “Diver” —
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home —
I — a Sparrow — build there
Sweet of twigs and twine
My perennial nest.

-Emily Dickinson

Herein a Blossom lies —
A Sepulchre, between —
Cross it, and overcome the Bee —
Remain — ’tis but a Rind.
-Emily Dickinson

Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
‘Tis easiest to lie
And every Grass that plays outside
Is sorry, some, for me.

Where I am not afraid to go
I may confide my Flower —
Who was not Enemy of Me
Will gentle be, to Her.

Nor separate, Herself and Me
By Distances become —
A single Bloom we constitute
Departed, or at Home —

Her face was in a bed of hair,
Like flowers in a plot –
Her hand was whiter than the sperm
That feeds the sacred light.
Her tongue more tender than the tune
That totters in the leaves –
Who hears may be incredulous,
Who witnesses, believes.
-Emily Dickinson

Her final Summer was it —
And yet We guessed it not —
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought

A further force of life
Developed from within —
When Death lit all the shortness up
It made the hurry plain —

We wondered at our blindness
When nothing was to see
But Her Carrara Guide post —
At Our Stupidity —

When duller than our dullness
The Busy Darling lay —
So busy was she — finishing —
So leisurely — were We

Her little Parasol to lift
And once to let it down
Her whole Responsibility –
To imitate be Mine.

A Summer further I must wear,
Content if Nature’s Drawer
Present me from sepulchral Crease
As blemishless, as Her.
-Emily Dickinson

Her smile was shaped like other smiles –
The Dimples ran along —
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Then recollect a Ball, she got —
And hold upon the Twig,
Convulsive, while the Music broke –
Like Beads — among the Bog —
-Emily Dickinson

Her sovereign People
Nature knows as well
And is as fond of signifying
As if fallible –
-Emily Dickinson

Her spirit rose to such a height
Her countenance it did inflate
Like one that fed on awe.
More prudent to assault the dawn
Than merit the ethereal scorn
That effervesced from her.
-Emily Dickinson

Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie —
When, stirring, for Belief’s delight,
My Bride had slipped away —

If ’twas a Dream — made solid — just
The Heaven to confirm —
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her —
The power to presume —

With Him remain — who unto Me —
Gave — even as to All —
A Fiction superseding Faith —
By so much — as ’twas real —

He scanned it — staggered —
Dropped the Loop
To Past or Period —
Caught helpless at a sense as if
His Mind were going blind —

Groped up, to see if God was there —
Groped backward at Himself
Caressed a Trigger absently
And wandered out of Life.
-Emily Dickinson

He strained my faith —
Did he find it supple?
Shook my strong trust —
Did it then — yield?

Hurled my belief —
But — did he shatter — it?
Racked — with suspense —
Not a nerve failed!

Wrung me — with Anguish —
But I never doubted him —
‘Tho’ for what wrong
He did never say —

Stabbed — while I sued
His sweet forgiveness —
Jesus — it’s your little “John”!
Don’t you know — me?

He told a homely tale
And spotted it with tears —
Upon his infant face was set
The Cicatrice of years —

All crumpled was the cheek
No other kiss had known
Than flake of snow, divided with
The Redbreast of the Barn —

If Mother — in the Grave —
Or Father — on the Sea —
Or Father in the Firmament —
Or Brethren, had he —

If Commonwealth below,
Or Commonwealth above
Have missed a Barefoot Citizen —
I’ve ransomed

He touched me, so I live to know
That such a day, permitted so,
I groped upon his breast —
It was a boundless place to me
And silenced, as the awful sea
Puts minor streams to rest.

And now, I’m different from before,
As if I breathed superior air —
Or brushed a Royal Gown —
My feet, too, that had wandered so —
My Gypsy face — transfigured now —
To tenderer Renown —

Into this Port, if I

He was my host – he was my guest,
I never to this day
If I invited him could tell,
Or he invited me.

So infinite our intercourse
So intimate, indeed,
Analysis as capsule seemed
To keeper of the seed.
-Emily Dickinson

He was weak, and I was strong — then —
So He let me lead him in —
I was weak, and He was strong then —
So I let him lead me — Home.

‘Twasn’t far — the door was near —
‘Twasn’t dark — for He went — too —
‘Twasn’t loud, for He said nought —
That was all I cared to know.

Day knocked — and we must part —
Neither — was strongest