Emily Dickinson

It always felt to me — a wrong
To that Old Moses — done —
To let him see — the Canaan —
Without the entering —

And tho’ in soberer moments —
No Moses there can be
I’m satisfied — the Romance
In point of injury —

Surpasses sharper stated —
Of Stephen — or of Paul —
For these — were only put to death —
While God’s adroiter will

On Moses — seemed to fasten
With tantalizing Play
As Boy

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon —
The Flower — distinct and Red —
I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in its stead

Will equal glow, and thought no More
But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared —
The Same Locality —

The Sun in place — no other fraud
On Nature’s perfect Sum —
Had I but lingered Yesterday —
Was my retrieveless blame —

Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking

It came at last but prompter Death
Had occupied the House —
His pallid Furniture arranged
And his metallic Peace —

Oh faithful Frost that kept the Date
Had Love as punctual been
Delight had aggrandized the Gate
And blocked the coming in.
-Emily Dickinson

It came his turn to beg —
The begging for the life
Is different from another Alms
‘Tis Penury in Chief —

I scanned his narrow realm
I gave him leave to live
Lest Gratitude revive the snake
Though smuggled his reprieve
-Emily Dickinson

It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross —
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge —
The Dead shall go in White —
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!
-Emily Dickinson

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not feel the Anguish go —
But only knew by looking back —
That something — had benumbed the Track —

Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock —
I hung upon the Peg, at night.

But not the Grief — that nestled close
As needles — ladies softly press
To Cushions Cheeks —
To keep their

It did not surprise me —
So I said — or thought —
She will stir her pinions
And the nest forgot,

Traverse broader forests —
Build in gayer boughs,
Breathe in Ear more modern
God’s old fashioned vows —

This was but a Birdling —
What and if it be
One within my bosom
Had departed me?

This was but a story —
What and if indeed
There were just such coffin
In the heart instead?

It don’t sound so terrible — quite — as it did —
I run it over — “Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin — left of my school —
Seems it don’t shriek so — under rule.

Turn it, a little — full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest —
Shift it — just —
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way —
I shall have waded down one Day.”

I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till

It dropped so low — in my Regard —
I heard it hit the Ground —
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind —

Yet blamed the Fate that flung it — less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon my Silver Shelf —
-Emily Dickinson

It feels a shame to be Alive —
When Men so brave — are dead —
One envies the Distinguished Dust —
Permitted — such a Head —

The Stone — that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we — possessed
In Pawn for Liberty —

The price is great — Sublimely paid —
Do we deserve — a Thing —
That lives — like Dollars — must be piled
Before we may obtain?

Are we

It is a lonesome Glee —
Yet sanctifies the Mind —
With fair association —
Afar upon the Wind

A Bird to overhear
Delight without a Cause —
Arrestless as invisible —
A matter of the Skies.
-Emily Dickinson

It is an honorable Thought
And make One lift One’s Hat
As One met sudden Gentlefolk
Upon a daily Street

That We’ve immortal Place
Though Pyramids decay
And Kingdoms, like the Orchard
Flit Russetly away
-Emily Dickinson

It is easy to work when the soul is at play —
But when the soul is in pain —
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult — then —

It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind —
But Gimlets — among the nerve —
Mangle daintier — terribler —
Like a Panter in the Glove —

It knew no Medicine —
It was not Sickness — then —
Nor any need of Surgery —
And therefore — ’twas not Pain —

It moved away the Cheeks —
A Dimple at a time —
And left the Profile — plainer —
And in the place of Bloom

It left the little Tint
That never had a Name —
You’ve seen it on a Cast’s face —
Was Paradise — to blame —

If momently ajar —
Temerity — drew

It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation —
But large — serene —
Burned on — until through Dissolution —
It failed from Men —

I could not deem these Planetary forces
Annulled —
But suffered an Exchange of Territory —
Or World —
-Emily Dickinson

It makes no difference abroad —
The Seasons — fit — the same —
The Mornings blossom into Noons —
And split their Pods of Flame —

Wild flowers — kindle in the Woods —
The Brooks slam — all the Day —
No Black bird bates his Banjo —
For passing Calvary —

Auto da Fe — and Judgment —
Are nothing to the Bee —
His separation from His Rose —
To Him — sums Misery —

It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness —
I’m so accustomed to my Fate —
Perhaps the Other — Peace —

Would interrupt the Dark —
And crowd the little Room —
Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him —

I am not used to Hope —
It might intrude upon —
Its sweet parade — blaspheme the place —
Ordained to Suffering —

It might be easier
To fail — with Land in Sight —
Than

It rises — passes — on our South
Inscribes a simple Noon —
Cajoles a Moment with the Spires
And infinite is gone —
-Emily Dickinson

Its Hour with itself
The Spirit never shows.
What Terror would enthrall the Street
Could Countenance disclose

The Subterranean Freight
The Cellars of the Soul —
Thank God the loudest Place he made
Is license to be still.
-Emily Dickinson

It’s all I have to bring today —
This, and my heart beside —
This, and my heart, and all the fields —
And all the meadows wide —
Be sure you count — should I forget
Some one the sum could tell —
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
-Emily Dickinson

It’s coming — the postponeless Creature —
It gains the Block — and now — it gains the Door —
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings —
Enters — with a “You know Me — Sir”?

Simple Salute — and certain Recognition —
Bold — were it Enemy — Brief — were it friend —
Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle —
And carries one — out of it — to God

It’s easy to invent a Life —
God does it — every Day —
Creation — but the Gambol
Of His Authority —

It’s easy to efface it —
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity —

The Perished Patterns murmur —
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed — inserting Here — a Sun —
There — leaving out a Man —

-Emily Dickinson

It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —

It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces —
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack — and Stem —
A Summer’s empty Room —
Acres of Joints, where

It’s like the Light —
A fashionless Delight —
It’s like the Bee —
A dateless — Melody —

It’s like the Woods —
Private — Like the Breeze —
Phraseless — yet it stirs
The proudest Trees —

It’s like the Morning —
Best — when it’s done —
And the Everlasting Clocks —
Chime — Noon!
-Emily Dickinson