Emily Dickinson

Like Flowers, that heard the news of Dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their — low Brows —
Or Bees — that thought the Summer’s name
Some rumor of Delirium,
No Summer — could — for Them —

Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred —
By Tropic Hint — some Travelled Bird
Imported to the Wood —

Or Wind’s bright signal to the Ear —
Making that homely, and severe,
Contented, known, before —

The Heaven — unexpected come,
To Lives

Like Men and Women Shadows walk
Upon the Hills Today —
With here and there a mighty Bow
Or trailing Courtesy
To Neighbors doubtless of their own
Not quickened to perceive
Minuter landscape as Ourselves
And Boroughs where we live —
-Emily Dickinson

Like Mighty Foot Lights — burned the Red
At Bases of the Trees —
The far Theatricals of Day
Exhibiting — to These —

‘Twas Universe — that did applaud —
While Chiefest — of the Crowd —
Enabled by his Royal Dress —
Myself distinguished God —
-Emily Dickinson

Like Rain it sounded till it curved
And then I new ’twas Wind —
It walked as wet as any Wave
But swept as dry as sand —
When it had pushed itself away
To some remotest Plain
A coming as of Hosts was heard
It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools
It warbled in the Road —
It pulled the spigot from the Hills
And let the Floods abroad —
It loosened acres, lifted seas
The sites of Centres

Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done —
Seems Summer’s Recollection
And the Affairs of June

As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella’s Bays —
Or Little John — of Lincoln Green —
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries —

Her Bees have a fictitious Hum —
Her Blossoms, like a Dream —
Elate us — till we almost weep —
So plausible — they seem —

Her Memories like Strains — Review —
When Orchestra is dumb —
The Violin in Baize replaced —
And

Like Time’s insidious wrinkle
On a beloved Face
We clutch the Grace the tighter
Though we resent the crease

The Frost himself so comely
Dishevels every prime
Asserting from his Prism
That none can punish him
-Emily Dickinson

Like Trains of Cars on Tracks of Plush
I hear the level Bee —
A Jar across the Flowers goes
Their Velvet Masonry —

Withstands until the sweet Assault
Their Chivalry consumes —
While He, victorious tilts away
To vanquish other Blooms.
-Emily Dickinson

Like eyes that looked on Wastes —
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank — and steady Wilderness —
Diversified by Night —

Just Infinites of Nought —
As far as it could see —
So looked the face I looked upon —
So looked itself — on Me —

I offered it no Help —
Because the Cause was Mine —
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless — as divine —

Neither — would be absolved —
Neither would be a Queen
Without the

Like her the Saints retire,
In their Chapeaux of fire,
Martial as she!

Like her the Evenings steal
Purple and Cochineal
After the Day!

“Departed” — both — they say!
i.e. gathered away,
Not found,

Argues the Aster still —
Reasons the Daffodil
Profound!
-Emily Dickinson

Lives he in any other world
My faith cannot reply
Before it was imperative
‘Twas all distinct to me —
-Emily Dickinson

Long Years apart — can make no
Breach a second cannot fill —
The absence of the Witch does not
Invalidate the spell —

The embers of a Thousand Years
Uncovered by the Hand
That fondled them when they were Fire
Will stir and understand —
-Emily Dickinson

Longing is like the Seed
That wrestles in the Ground,
Believing if it intercede
It shall at length be found.

The Hour, and the Clime —
Each Circumstance unknown,
What Constancy must be achieved
Before it see the Sun!
-Emily Dickinson

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes —
He doubtless did his best —
How softly sinks that trembling sun
In Human Nature’s West —
-Emily Dickinson

Love — is anterior to Life —
Posterior — to Death —
Initial of Creation, and
The Exponent of Earth —
-Emily Dickinson

Love — is that later Thing than Death —
More previous — than Life —
Confirms it at its entrance — And
Usurps it — of itself —

Tastes Death — the first — to hand the sting
The Second — to its friend —
Disarms the little interval —
Deposits Him with God —

Then hovers — an inferior Guard —
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need — once in an Eternity —
A smaller than the Large —

Love — thou art high —
I cannot climb thee —
But, were it Two —
Who know but we —
Taking turns — at the Chimborazo —
Ducal — at last — stand up by thee —

Love — thou are deep —
I cannot cross thee —
But, were there Two
Instead of One —
Rower, and Yacht — some sovereign Summer —
Who knows — but we’d reach the Sun?

Love — thou are Veiled —
A few

Love can do all but raise the Dead
I doubt if even that
From such a giant were withheld
Were flesh equivalent

But love is tired and must sleep,
And hungry and must graze
And so abets the shining Fleet
Till it is out of gaze.
-Emily Dickinson

Love is done when Love’s begun,
Sages say,
But have Sages known?
Truth adjourn your Boon
Without Day.
-Emily Dickinson

Love reckons by itself — alone —
“As large as I” — relate the Sun
To One who never felt it blaze —
Itself is all the like it has —
-Emily Dickinson

Love’s stricken “why”
Is all that love can speak —
Built of but just a syllable
The hugest hearts that break.

-Emily Dickinson

Low at my problem bending,
Another problem comes —
Larger than mine — Serener —
Involving statelier sums.

I check my busy pencil,
My figures file away.
Wherefore, my baffled fingers
They perplexity?
-Emily Dickinson

Luck is not chance —
It’s Toil —
Fortune’s expensive smile
Is earned —
The Father of the Mine
Is that old-fashioned Coin
We spurned —
-Emily Dickinson

Make me a picture of the sun —
So I can hang it in my room —
And make believe I’m getting warm
When others call it “Day”!

Draw me a Robin — on a stem —
So I am hearing him, I’ll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune —
Put my pretense — away —

Say if it’s really — warm at noon —
Whether it’s Buttercups — that “skim” —
Or Butterflies — that

Mama never forgets her birds,
Though in another tree —
She looks down just as often
And just as tenderly
As when her little mortal nest
With cunning care she wove —
If either of her “sparrows fall,”
She “notices,” above.
-Emily Dickinson

Many a phrase has the English language —
I have heard but one —
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue —

Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide’s a’ lull —
Saying itself in new inflection —
Like a Whippoorwill —

Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep —
Thundering its Prospective —
Till I stir, and weep —

Not for the Sorrow, done me —
But the push of Joy —
Say it again,