Emily Dickinson

Of Bronze — and Blaze —
The North — Tonight —
So adequate — it forms —
So preconcerted with itself —
So distant — to alarms —
And Unconcern so sovereign
To Universe, or me —
Infects my simple spirit
With Taints of Majesty —
Till I take vaster attitudes —
And strut upon my stem —
Disdaining Men, and Oxygen,
For Arrogance of them —

My Splendors, are Menagerie —
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long

Of Brussels — it was not —
Of Kidderminster? Nay —
The Winds did buy it of the Woods —
They — sold it unto me

It was a gentle price —
The poorest — could afford —
It was within the frugal purse
Of Beggar — or of Bird —

Of small and spicy Yards —
In hue — a mellow Dun —
Of Sunshine — and of Sere — Composed —
But, principally — of Sun —

The Wind

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid –
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.

The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd –
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God –
-Emily Dickinson

Of Course — I prayed —
And did God Care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird — had stamped her foot —
And cried “Give Me” —
My Reason — Life —
I had not had — but for Yourself —
‘Twere better Charity
To leave me in the Atom’s Tomb —
Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb —
Than this smart Misery.

Of Death I try to think like this —
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us —

I do remember when a Child
With bolder Playmates straying
To where a Brook that seemed a Sea
Withheld us by its roaring
From just the Purple Flower beyond
Until

Of Glory not a Beam is left
But her Eternal House —
The Asterisk is for the Dead,
The Living, for the Stars —
-Emily Dickinson

Of Life to own —
From Life to draw —
But never tough the reservoir —
-Emily Dickinson

Of Nature I shall have enough
When I have entered these
Entitled to a Bumble bee’s
Familiarities.
-Emily Dickinson

Of Paradise’ existence
All we know
Is the uncertain certainty —
But its vicinity infer,
By its Bisecting
Messenger —
-Emily Dickinson

Of Paul and Silas it is said
There were in Prison laid
But when they went to take them out
They were not there instead.

Security the same insures
To our assaulted Minds —
The staple must be optional
That an Immortal binds.
-Emily Dickinson

Of Silken Speech and Specious Shoe
A Traitor is the Bee
His service to the newest Grace
Present continually

His Suit a chance
His Troth a Term
Protracted as the Breeze
Continual Ban propoundeth He
Continual Divorce.
-Emily Dickinson

Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause?
“A Soul has gone to Heaven”
I’m answered in a lonesome tone —
Is Heaven then a Prison?

That Bells should ring till all should know
A Soul had gone to Heaven
Would seem to me the more the way
A Good News should be given.
-Emily Dickinson

Of Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White —
The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank
Of Victors — designate —

All these — did conquer —
But the ones who overcame most times —
Wear nothing commoner than Snow —
No Ornament, but Palms —

Surrender — is a sort unknown —
On this superior soil —
Defeat — an outgrown Anguish —
Remembered, as the Mile

Our panting Ankle barely passed —
When Night devoured the Road —
But we —

Of Yellow was the outer Sky
In Yellower Yellow hewn
Till Saffron in Vermilion slid
Whose seam could not be shewn.
-Emily Dickinson

Of all the Souls that stand create —
I have elected — One —
When Sense from Spirit — files away —
And Subterfuge — is done —
When that which is — and that which was —
Apart — intrinsic — stand —
And this brief Drama in the flesh —
Is shifted — like a Sand —
When Figures show their royal Front —
And Mists — are carved away,
Behold the Atom — I preferred —
To

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs —
That phraseless Melody —
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky —
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune —
Permitted Gods, and me —

Inheritance, it is, to us —
Beyond the Art to Earn —
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers —
And

Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times —
When Dimness — looks the Oddity —
Distinctness — easy — seems —

The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms —
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes —

In just the Jacket that he wore —
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we — old mornings, Children — played —
Divided — by a world —

The Grave yields back her Robberies —
The Years,

Of so divine a Loss
We enter but the Gain,
Indemnity for Loneliness
That such a Bliss has been.
-Emily Dickinson

Of the Heart that goes in, and closes the Door
Shall the Playfellow Heart complain
Though the Ring is unwhole, and the Company broke
Can never be fitted again?
-Emily Dickinson

Of their peculiar light
I keep one ray
To clarify the Sight
To seek them by –
-Emily Dickinson

Of this is Day composed
A morning and a noon
A Revelry unspeakable
And then a gay unknown
Whose Pomps allure and spurn
And dower and deprive
And penury for Glory
Remedilessly leave.
-Emily Dickinson

Of whom so dear
The name to hear
Illumines with a Glow
As intimate — as fugitive
As Sunset on the snow —
-Emily Dickinson

Oh Future! thou secreted peace
Or subterranean woe —
Is there no wandering route of grace
That leads away from thee —
No circuit sage of all the course
Descried by cunning Men
To balk thee of thy sacred Prey —
Advancing to thy Den —
-Emily Dickinson

Oh Shadow on the Grass,
Art thou a Step or not?
Go make thee fair my Candidate
My nominated Heart —
Oh Shadow on the Grass
While I delay to guess
Some other thou wilt consecrate —
Oh Unelected Face —
-Emily Dickinson