Emily Dickinson

Oh Sumptuous moment
Slower go
That I may gloat on thee —
‘Twill never be the same to starve
Now I abundance see —

Which was to famish, then or now —
The difference of Day
Ask him unto the Gallows led —
With morning in the sky —
-Emily Dickinson

Oh give it Motion — deck it sweet
With Artery and Vein —
Upon its fastened Lips lay words —
Affiance it again
To that Pink stranger we call Dust —
Acquainted more with that
Than with this horizontal one
That will not lift its Hat —
-Emily Dickinson

Oh, honey of an hour,
I never knew thy power,
Prohibit me
Till my minutest dower,
My unfrequented flower,
Deserving be.
-Emily Dickinson

Oh what a Grace is this,
What Majesties of Peace,
That having breathed
The fine — ensuing Right
Without Diminuet Proceed!
-Emily Dickinson

On a Columnar Self —
How ample to rely
In Tumult — or Extremity —
How good the Certainty

That Lever cannot pry —
And Wedge cannot divide
Conviction — That Granitic Base —
Though None be on our Side —

Suffice Us — for a Crowd —
Ourself — and Rectitude —
And that Assembly — not far off
From furthest Spirit — God —

On my volcano grows the Grass
A meditative spot —
An acre for a Bird to choose
Would be the General thought —

How red the Fire rocks below —
How insecure the sod
Did I disclose
Would populate with awe my solitude.
-Emily Dickinson

On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair —

So quiet — Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer — to and fro —

On such a dawn, or such a dawn —
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie

For Chanticleer to wake it —
Or stirring house below —
Or giddy bird in orchard —
Or

On that dear Frame the Years had worn
Yet precious as the House
In which We first experienced Light
The Witnessing, to Us —

Precious! It was conceiveless fair
As Hands the Grave had grimed
Should softly place within our own
Denying that they died.
-Emily Dickinson

On that specific Pillow
Our projects flit away —
The Night’s tremendous Morrow
And whether sleep will stay
Or usher us — a stranger —
To situations new
The effort to comprise it
Is all the soul can do.
-Emily Dickinson

On the World you colored
Morning painted rose —
Idle his Vermillion
Aimlessly crept the Glows
Over Realms of Orchards
I the Day before
Conquered with the Robin —
Misery, how fair
Till your wrinkled Finger
Shored the sun away
Midnight’s awful Pattern
In the Goods of Day —
-Emily Dickinson

On this long storm the Rainbow rose —
On this late Morn — the Sun —
The clouds — like listless Elephants —
Horizons — straggled down —

The Birds rose smiling, in their nests —
The gales — indeed — were done —
Alas, how heedless were the eyes —
On whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of death —
No Daybreak — can bestir —
The slow — Archangel’s syllables
Must awaken her!

On this wondrous sea
Sailing silently,
Ho! Pilot, ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar —
Where the storm is o’er?

In the peaceful west
Many the sails at rest —
The anchors fast —
Thither I pilot thee —
Land Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!
-Emily Dickinson

Once more, my now bewildered Dove
Bestirs her puzzled wings
Once more her mistress, on the deep
Her troubled question flings —

Thrice to the floating casement
The Patriarch’s bird returned,
Courage! My brave Columbia!
There may yet be land
-Emily Dickinson

One Anguish — in a Crowd —
A Minor thing — it sounds —
And yet, unto the single Doe
Attempted of the Hounds

‘Tis Terror as consummate
As Legions of Alarm
Did leap, full flanked, upon the Host —
‘Tis Units — make the Swarm —

A Small Leech — on the Vitals —
The sliver, in the Lung —
The Bung out — of an Artery —
Are scarce accounted — Harms —

Yet might — by relation
To that

One Blessing had I than the rest
So larger to my Eyes
That I stopped gauging — satisfied —
For this enchanted size —

It was the limit of my Dream —
The focus of my Prayer —
A perfect — paralyzing Bliss —
Contented as Despair —

I knew no more of Want — or Cold —
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul —
Supremest Earthly Sum —

The Heaven below the Heaven above —
Obscured

One Crucifixion is recorded — only —
How many be
Is not affirmed of Mathematics —
Or History —

One Calvary — exhibited to Stranger —
As many be
As persons — or Peninsulas —
Gethsemane —

Is but a Province — in the Being’s Centre —
Judea —
For Journey — or Crusade’s Achieving —
Too near —

Our Lord — indeed — made Compound Witness —
And yet —
There’s newer — nearer Crucifixion
Than That —

One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.

Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.

Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —

Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
‘Twere Thanksgiving Day.

One Joy of so much anguish
Sweet nature has for me
I shun it as I do Despair
Or dear iniquity –
Why Birds, a Summer morning
Before the Quick of Day
Should stab my ravished spirit
With Dirks of Melody
Is part of an inquiry
That will receive reply
When Flesh and Spirit sunder
In Death’s Immediately –
-Emily Dickinson

One Life of so much Consequence!
Yet I — for it — would pay —
My Soul’s entire income —
In ceaseless — salary —

One Pearl — to me — so signal —
That I would instant dive —
Although — I knew — to take it —
Would cost me — just a life!

The Sea is full — I know it!
That — does not blur my Gem!
It burns — distinct from all the row

One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There’s only one recorded,
But both belong to me.

One came the road that I came —
And wore my last year’s gown —
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.

She did not sing as we did —
It was a different tune —
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.

Today is far from Childhood —
But up and down the

One Year ago — jots what?
God — spell the word! I — can’t —
Was’t Grace? Not that —
Was’t Glory? That — will do —
Spell slower — Glory —

Such Anniversary shall be —
-Emily Dickinson

One and One — are One —
Two — be finished using —
Well enough for Schools —
But for Minor Choosing —

Life — just — or Death —
Or the Everlasting —
More — would be too vast
For the Soul’s Comprising —
-Emily Dickinson

One crown that no one seeks
And yet the highest head
Its isolation coveted
Its stigma deified

While Pontius Pilate lives
In whatsoever hell
That coronation pierces him
He recollects it well.
-Emily Dickinson

One dignity delays for all —
One mitred Afternoon —
None can avoid this purple —
None evade this Crown!

Coach, it insures, and footmen —
Chamber, and state, and throng —
Bells, also, in the village
As we ride grand along!

What dignified Attendants!
What service when we pause!
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise!

Her pomp surpassing ermine
When simple You, and I,
Present our meek escutheon
And claim the rank to die!

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase —
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter —
In lonesome Place —

Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.

The Body — borrows a