Emily Dickinson
A Feather From The Whippoorwill
A feather from the Whippoorwill
That everlasting — sings!
Whose galleries — are Sunrise —
Whose Opera — the Springs —
Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
Of mellow — murmuring thread —
Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys hunt
In “Recess” — Overhead!
-Emily Dickinson
A Field Of Stubble, Lying Sere
A Field of Stubble, lying sere
Beneath the second Sun —
Its Toils to Brindled People thrust —
Its Triumphs — to the Bin —
Accosted by a timid Bird
Irresolute of Alms —
Is often seen — but seldom felt,
On our New England Farms —
– Emily Dickinson
A First Mute Coming
A first Mute Coming —
In the Stranger’s House —
A first fair Going —
When the Bells rejoice —
A first Exchange — of
What hath mingled — been —
For Lot — exhibited to
Faith — alone —
-Emily Dickinson
A Flower Will Not Trouble Her, It Has So Small A Foot
A Flower will not trouble her, it has so small a Foot,
And yet if you compare the Lasts,
Hers is the smallest Boot —
-Emily Dickinson
A Full Fed Rose On Meals Of Tint
A full fed Rose on meals of Tint
A Dinner for a Bee
In process of the Noon became –
Each bright Mortality
The Forfeit is of Creature fair
Itself, adored before
Submitting for our unknown sake
To be esteemed no more —
– Emily Dickinson
A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet
A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!
Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!
All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence —
And struts in sewing silk!
Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You’d scarce recognize him!
By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am
A Great Hope Fell
A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no Witness in
The mind was built for mighty Freight
For dread occasion planned
How often foundering at Sea
Ostensibly, on Land
A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside
A closing of the simple lid
That opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down
A Happy Lip — Breaks Sudden
A happy lip — breaks sudden —
It doesn’t state you how
It contemplated — smiling —
Just consummated — now —
But this one, wears its merriment
So patient — like a pain —
Fresh gilded — to elude the eyes
Unqualified, to scan —
-Emily Dickinson
A House Upon The Height
A House upon the Height —
That Wagon never reached —
No Dead, were ever carried down —
No Peddler’s Cart — approached —
Whose Chimney never smoked —
Whose Windows — Night and Morn —
Caught Sunrise first — and Sunset — last —
Then — held an Empty Pane —
Whose fate — Conjecture knew —
No other neighbor — did —
And what it was — we never lisped —
Because He — never told —
-Emily Dickinson
A Lady Red – Amid The Hill
A Lady red-amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms-
Sweep vale-and hill-and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird-
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
– Emily Dickinson
A Lane Of Yellow Led The Eye
A lane of Yellow led the eye
Unto a Purple Wood
Whose soft inhabitants to be
Surpasses solitude
If Bird the silence contradict
Or flower presume to show
In that low summer of the West
Impossible to know –
-Emily Dickinson
A Letter is a joy of Earth
A Letter is a joy of Earth –
It is denied the Gods –
– Emily Dickinson
A Light Exists In Spring
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
-Emily Dickinson
A little bread – a crust – a crumb
A little bread – a crust – a crumb –
A little trust – a demijohn –
Can keep the soul alive –
Not portly, mind! but breathing – warm –
Conscious – as old Napoleon,
The night before the Crown!
A modest lot – A fame petite –
A brief Campaign of sting and sweet
Is plenty! Is enough!
A Sailor’s business is the shore!
A Soldier’s – balls! Who asketh more,
Must seek the neighboring life!
-Emily Dickinson
A little Dog that wags his tail
A little Dog that wags his tail
And knows no other joy
Of such a little Dog am I
Reminded by a Boy
Who gambols all the living Day
Without an earthly cause
Because he is a little Boy
I honestly suppose –
The Cat that in the Corner dwells
Her martial Day forgot
The Mouse but a Tradition now
Of her desireless Lot
Another class remind me
Who neither please nor play
But not to make a “bit of noise”
Beseech each little
A little East of Jordan
A little East of Jordan,
Evangelists record,
A Gymnast and an Angel
Did wrestle long and hard –
Till morning touching mountain –
And Jacob, waxing strong,
The Angel begged permission
To Breakfast – to return –
Not so, said cunning Jacob!
“I will not let thee go
Except thou bless me” – Stranger!
The which acceded to –
Light swung the silver fleeces
“Peniel” Hills beyond,
And the bewildered Gymnast
Found he had worsted God!
-Emily Dickinson
A little Madness in the Spring
A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown –
Who ponders this tremendous scene –
This whole Experiment of Green –
As if it were his own!
-Emily Dickinson
A Little Overflowing Word
A little overflowing word
That any, hearing, had inferred
For Ardor or for Tears,
Though Generations pass away,
Traditions ripen and decay,
As eloquent appears —
-Emily Dickinson
A little Road – not made of Man
A little Road — not made of Man –
Enabled of the Eye —
Accessible to Thill of Bee —
Or Cart of Butterfly —
If Town it have — beyond itself –
‘Tis that — I cannot say —
I only know — no Curricle that rumble there
Bear Me —
– Emily Dickinson
A little Snow was here and there
A little Snow was here and there
Disseminated in her Hair —
Since she and I had met and played
Decade had gathered to Decade —
But Time had added not obtained
Impregnable the Rose
For summer too indelible
Too obdurate for Snows —
-Emily Dickinson
A long – long Sleep – A famous – Sleep
A long — long Sleep — A famous — Sleep —
That makes no show for Morn —
By Stretch of Limb — or stir of Lid —
An independent One —
Was ever idleness like This?
Upon a Bank of Stone
To bask the Centuries away —
Nor once look up — for Noon?
-Emily Dickinson
A loss of something ever felt I
A loss of something ever felt I —
The first that I could recollect
Bereft I was — of what I knew not
Too young that any should suspect
A Mourner walked among the children
I notwithstanding went about
As one bemoaning a Dominion
Itself the only Prince cast out —
Elder, Today, a session wiser
And fainter, too, as Wiseness is —
I find myself still softly searching
For my Delinguent Palaces —
And a Suspicion, like a Finger
Touches my
A Man may make a Remark
A Man may make a Remark —
In itself — a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature — lain —
Let us deport — with skill —
Let us discourse — with care —
Powder exists in Charcoal —
Before it exists in Fire.
-Emily Dickinson
A Mien to move a Queen
A Mien to move a Queen —
Half Child — Half Heroine —
An Orleans in the Eye
That puts its manner by
For humbler Company
When none are near
Even a Tear —
Its frequent Visitor —
A Bonnet like a Duke —
And yet a Wren’s Peruke
Were not so shy
Of Goer by —
And Hands — so slight —
They would elate a Sprite
With Merriment —
A Voice that Alters — Low
And on the Ear can go
Like Let of
A Mine there is no Man would own
A Mine there is no Man would own
But must it be conferred,
Demeaning by exclusive wealth
A Universe beside –
Potosi never to be spent
But hoarded in the mind
What Misers wring their hands tonight
For Indies in the Ground!
-Emily Dickinson