Emily Dickinson

A Moth the hue of this
Haunts Candles in Brazil.
Nature’s Experience would make
Our Reddest Second pale.

Nature is fond, I sometimes think,
Of Trinkets, as a Girl.
-Emily Dickinson

A Murmur in the Trees — to note –
Not loud enough — for Wind —
A Star — not far enough to seek —
Nor near enough — to find —

A long — long Yellow — on the Lawn –
A Hubbub — as of feet —
Not audible — as Ours — to Us —
But dapperer — More Sweet —

A Hurrying Home of little Men
To Houses unperceived —
All this — and more

A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides –
You may have met Him – did you not
His notice sudden is –

The Grass divides as with a Comb –
A spotted shaft is seen –
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on –

He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn –
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot –
I more than once at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash
Unbraiding

A nearness to Tremendousness —
An Agony procures —
Affliction ranges Boundlessness —
Vicinity to Laws

Contentment’s quiet Suburb —
Affliction cannot stay
In Acres — Its Location
Is Illocality –
-Emily Dickinson

A Night — there lay the Days between —
The Day that was Before —
And Day that was Behind — were one —
And now — ’twas Night — was here —

Slow — Night — that must be watched away —
As Grains upon a shore —
Too imperceptible to note —
Till it be night — no more –
-Emily Dickinson

A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring
In contrast with the things that sing
Not Birds entirely – but Minds –
Minute Effulgencies and Winds –
When what they sung for is undone
Who cares about a Blue Bird’s Tune –
Why, Resurrection had to wait
Till they had moved a Stone –
-Emily Dickinson

A Planted Life — diversified
With Gold and Silver Pain
To prove the presence of the Ore
In Particles — ’tis when

A Value struggle — it exist —
A Power — will proclaim
Although Annihilation pile
Whole Chaoses on Him –
-Emily Dickinson

A precious — mouldering pleasure — ’tis —
To meet an Antique Book —
In just the Dress his Century wore —
A privilege — I think —

His venerable Hand to take —
And warming in our own —
A passage back — or two — to make —
To Times when he — was young —

His quaint opinions — to inspect —
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind —
The Literature of Man

A Prison gets to be a friend —
Between its Ponderous face
And Ours — a Kinsmanship express —
And in its narrow Eyes —

We come to look with gratitude
For the appointed Beam
It deal us — stated as our food —
And hungered for — the same —

We learn to know the Planks —
That answer to Our feet —
So miserable a sound — at first —
Nor ever now — so sweet —

As plashing

A prompt — executive Bird is the Jay —
Bold as a Bailiff’s Hymn —
Brittle and Brief in quality —
Warrant in every line —

Sitting a Bough like a Brigadier
Confident and straight —
Much is the mien of him in March
As a Magistrate –
-Emily Dickinson

A Rat surrendered here
A brief career of Cheer
And Fraud and Fear.

Of Ignominy’s due
Let all addicted to
Beware.

The most obliging Trap
Its tendency to snap
Cannot resist —

Temptation is the Friend
Repugnantly resigned
At last.
-Emily Dickinson

A Route of Evanescence
With a revolving Wheel —
A Resonance of Emerald —
A Rush of Cochineal —
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head —
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning’s Ride –
-Emily Dickinson

A science — so the Savants say,
“Comparative Anatomy” —
By which a single bone —
Is made a secret to unfold
Of some rare tenant of the mold,
Else perished in the stone —

So to the eye prospective led,
This meekest flower of the mead
Upon a winter’s day,
Stands representative in gold
Of Rose and Lily, manifold,
And countless Butterfly!
-Emily Dickinson

A Secret told —
Ceases to be a Secret — then –
A Secret — kept —
That — can appal but One –

Better of it — continual be afraid —
Than it —
And Whom you told it to — beside –
-Emily Dickinson

A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn —
A flask of Dew — A Bee or two —
A Breeze — a caper in the trees —
And I’m a Rose!
-Emily Dickinson

A Shade upon the mind there passes
As when on Noon
A Cloud the mighty Sun encloses
Remembering

That some there be too numb to notice
Oh God
Why give if Thou must take away
The Loved?
-Emily Dickinson

A shady friend — for Torrid days —
Is easier to find —
Than one of higher temperature
For Frigid — hour of Mind —

The Vane a little to the East —
Scares Muslin souls — away —
If Broadcloth Hearts are firmer —
Than those of Organdy —

Who is to blame? The Weaver?
Ah, the bewildering thread!
The Tapestries of Paradise
So notelessly — are made!
-Emily Dickinson

A Sickness of this World it most occasions
When Best Men die.
A Wishfulness their far Condition
To occupy.

A Chief indifference, as Foreign
A World must be
Themselves forsake — contented,
For Deity.
-Emily Dickinson

A single Screw of Flesh
Is all that pins the Soul
That stands for Deity, to Mine,
Upon my side the Veil —

Once witnessed of the Gauze –
Its name is put away
As far from mine, as if no plight
Had printed yesterday,

In tender — solemn Alphabet,
My eyes just turned to see,
When it was smuggled by my sight
Into Eternity —

More Hands — to hold — These are but Two –
One more new-mailed Nerve
Just

A slash of Blue —
A sweep of Gray —
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky —
A little purple — slipped between —
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on —
A Wave of Gold —
A Bank of Day —
This just makes out the Morning Sky.
-Emily Dickinson

A Sloop of Amber slips away
Upon an Ether Sea,
And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,
The Son of Ecstasy –
-Emily Dickinson