Emily Dickinson

Many cross the Rhine
In this cup of mine.
Sip old Frankfort air
From my brown Cigar.
-Emily Dickinson

March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know —
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now —
We try to show becoming firmness —
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.
-Emily Dickinson

Me — come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!
Me — hear! My foreign Ear
The sounds of Welcome — there!

The Saints forget
Our bashful feet —

My Holiday, shall be
That They — remember me —
My Paradise — the fame
That They — pronounce my name —
-Emily Dickinson

Me, change! Me, alter!
Then I will, when on the Everlasting Hill
A Smaller Purple grows —
At sunset, or a lesser glow
Flickers upon Cordillera —
At Day’s superior close!
-Emily Dickinson

Meeting by Accident,
We hovered by design —
As often as a Century
An error so divine
Is ratified by Destiny,
But Destiny is old
And economical of Bliss
As Midas is of Gold —
-Emily Dickinson

Me from Myself — to banish —
Had I Art —
Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart —

But since Myself — assault Me —
How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?

And since We’re mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication —
Me — of Me?
-Emily Dickinson

Me prove it now — Whoever doubt
Me stop to prove it — now —
Make haste — the Scruple! Death be scant
For Opportunity —

The River reaches to my feet —
As yet — My Heart be dry —
Oh Lover — Life could not convince —
Might Death — enable Thee —

The River reaches to My Breast —
Still — still — My Hands above
Proclaim with their remaining Might —
Dost recognize the Love?

The

Midsummer, was it, when They died —
A full, and perfect time —
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom —

The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail —
When These — leaned unto Perfectness —
Through Haze of Burial —
-Emily Dickinson

Mine Enemy is growing old —
I have at last Revenge —
The Palate of the Hate departs —
If any would avenge

Let him be quick — the Viand flits —
It is a faded Meat —
Anger as soon as fed is dead —
‘Tis starving makes it fat —
-Emily Dickinson

More Life — went out — when He went
Than Ordinary Breath —
Lit with a finer Phosphor —
Requiring in the Quench —

A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live —

For some — an Ampler Zero —
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.

Others — extinguish easier —
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen —

Whose Peat lift — amply vivid

More than the Grave is closed to me
The Grave and that Eternity
To which the Grave adheres
I cling to nowhere till I fall
The Crash of nothing, yet of all
How similar appears
-Emily Dickinson

Morning — is the place for Dew —
Corn — is made at Noon —
After dinner light — for flowers —
Dukes — for Setting Sun!
-Emily Dickinson

Morning is due to all —
To some — the Night —
To an imperial few —
The Auroral light.
-Emily Dickinson

Morning that comes but once,
Considers coming twice —
Two Dawns upon a single Morn,
Make Life a sudden price.

Morns like these — we parted —
Noons like these — she rose —
Fluttering first — then firmer
To her fair repose.

Never did she lisp it —
It was not for me —
She — was mute from transport —
I — from agony —

Till — the evening nearing
One the curtains drew —
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
-Emily

Most she touched me by her muteness —
Most she won me by the way
She presented her small figure —
Plea itself — for Charity —

Were a Crumb my whole possession —
Were there famine in the land —
Were it my resource from starving —
Could I such a plea withstand —

Not upon her knee to thank me
Sank this Beggar from the Sky —
But the Crumb partook — departed —
And returned On High

Much Madness is divinest Sense
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain

Musicians wrestle everywhere —
All day — among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife —
And — waking — long before the morn —
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “New Life”!

If is not Bird — it has no nest —
Nor “Band” — in brass and scarlet — drest —
Nor Tamborin — nor Man —
It is not Hymn from pulpit read —
The “Morning Stars” the Treble led
On Time’s

Must be a Woe —
A loss or so —
To bend the eye
Best Beauty’s way —

But — once aslant
It notes Delight
As difficult
As Stalactite

A Common Bliss
Were had for less —
The price — is
Even as the Grace —

Our lord — thought no
Extravagance
To pay — a Cross —
-Emily Dickinson

Mute thy Coronation —
Meek my Vive le roi,
Fold a tiny courtier
In thine Ermine, Sir,
There to rest revering
Till the pageant by,
I can murmur broken,
Master, It was I —
-Emily Dickinson

My Cocoon tightens — Colors tease —
I’m feeling for the Air —
A dim capacity for Wings
Demeans the Dress I wear —

A power of Butterfly must be —
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty implies
And easy Sweeps of Sky —

So I must baffle at the Hint
And cipher at the Sign
And make much blunder, if at least
I take the clue divine —

My Eye is fuller than my vase —
Her Cargo — is of Dew —
And still — my Heart — my Eye outweighs —
East India — for you!
-Emily Dickinson

My Faith is larger than the Hills —
So when the Hills decay —
My Faith must take the Purple Wheel
To show the Sun the way —

‘Tis first He steps upon the Vane —
And then — upon the Hill —
And then abroad the World He go
To do His Golden Will —

And if His Yellow feet should miss —
The Bird would not arise —
The Flowers would slumber on their Stems —
No Bells

My Garden — like the Beach —
Denotes there be — a Sea —
That’s Summer —
Such as These — the Pearls
She fetches — such as Me
-Emily Dickinson