Emily Dickinson

He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn –
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain –
-Emily Dickinson

He who in Himself believes –
Fraud cannot presume —
Faith is Constancy’s Result –
And assumes — from Home —

Cannot perish, though it fail
Every second time —
But defaced Vicariously –
For Some Other Shame —
-Emily Dickinson

High from the earth I heard a bird,
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous going fellow
I gathered from his talk
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook.
Without apparent burden
I subsequently learned
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood.
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care.
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!

His Bill an Auger is
His Head, a Cap and Frill
He laboreth at every Tree
A Worm, His utmost Goal.
-Emily Dickinson

His Bill is clasped – his Eye forsook –
His Feathers wilted low –
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now –
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged mind
The firing in Heaven,
On Angels – squandering for you
Their Miracles of Tune –

His Cheek is his Biographer —
As long as he can blush
Perdition is Opprobrium —
Past that, he sins in peace —
-Emily Dickinson

His Feet are shod with Gauze —
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.

His Labor is a Chant —
His Idleness — a Tune —
Oh, for a Bee’s experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
-Emily Dickinson

His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn
-Emily Dickinson

His Mansion in the Pool
The Frog forsakes —
He rises on a Log
And statements makes —
His Auditors two Worlds
Deducting me —
The Orator of April
Is hoarse Today —
His Mittens at his Feet
No Hand hath he —
His eloquence a Bubble
As Fame should be —
Applaud him to discover
To your chagrin
Demosthenes has vanished
In Waters Green —
-Emily Dickinson

His Mind like Fabrics of the East
Displayed to the despair
Of everyone but here and there
An humble Purchaser —
For though his price was not of Gold —
More arduous there is —
That one should comprehend the worth
Was all the price there was —
-Emily Dickinson

His little Hearse like Figure
Unto itself a Dirge
To a delusive Lilac
The vanity divulge
Of Industry and Morals
And every righteous thing
For the divine Perdition
Of Idleness and Spring –
-Emily Dickinson

His mind of man, a secret makes
I meet him with a start
He carries a circumference
In which I have no part –

Or even if I deem I do
He otherwise may know
Impregnable to inquest
However neighborly –
-Emily Dickinson

His oriental heresies
Exhilarate the Bee,
And filling all the Earth and Air
With gay apostasy

Fatigued at last, a Clover plain
Allures his jaded eye
That lowly Breast where Butterflies
Have felt it meet to die –
-Emily Dickinson

His voice decrepit was with Joy –
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly
That purled a moment since with Glee –
Is it Delight or Woe —
Or Terror — that do decorate
This livid interview –
-Emily Dickinson

Hope is a strange invention –
A Patent of the Heart —
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out —

Of this electric Adjunct
Not anything is known
But its unique momentum
Embellish all we own –
-Emily Dickinson

Hope is a subtle Glutton –
He feeds upon the Fair —
And yet — inspected closely
What Abstinence is there —

His is the Halcyon Table –
That never seats but One —
And whatsoever is consumed
The same amount remain –
-Emily Dickinson

How Human Nature dotes
On what it can’t detect.
The moment that a Plot is plumbed
Prospective is extinct –

Prospective is the friend
Reserved for us to know
When Constancy is clarified
Of Curiosity –

Of subjects that resist
Redoubtablest is this
Where go we –
Go we anywhere
Creation after this?
-Emily Dickinson

How News must feel when travelling
If News have any Heart
Alighting at the Dwelling
‘Twill enter like a Dart!

What News must think when pondering
If News have any Thought
Concerning the stupendousness
Of its perceiveless freight!

What News will do when every Man
Shall comprehend as one
And not in all the Universe
A thing to tell remain?
-Emily Dickinson

How brittle are the Piers
On which our Faith doth tread —
No Bridge below doth totter so —
Yet none hath such a Crowd.

It is as old as God —
Indeed — ’twas built by him —
He sent his Son to test the Plank,
And he pronounced it firm.
-Emily Dickinson

How dare the robins sing,
When men and women hear
Who since they went to their account
Have settled with the year! –
Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.
Insulting is the sun
To him whose mortal light
Beguiled of immortality
Bequeaths him to the night.
Extinct be every hum
In deference to him
Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
At daybreak overcome!

How destitute is he
Whose Gold is firm
Who finds it every time
The small stale Sum —
When Love with but a Pence
Will so display
As is a disrespect
To India.
-Emily Dickinson

How far is it to Heaven?
As far as Death this way –
Of River or of Ridge beyond
Was no discovery.

How far is it to Hell?
As far as Death this way –
How far left hand the Sepulchre
Defies Topography.
-Emily Dickinson

How firm Eternity must look
To crumbling men like me
The only Adamant Estate
In all Identity –

How mighty to the insecure
Thy Physiognomy
To whom not any Face cohere –
Unless concealed in thee
-Emily Dickinson

How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream —

Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes —

We know that we are wise —
Accomplished in Surprise —
Yet by this Countryman —
This nature — how undone!
-Emily Dickinson

How fleet — how indiscreet an one —
How always wrong is Love —
The joyful little Deity
We are not scourged to serve —
-Emily Dickinson