Fame is the tine that Scholars leave
866
Fame is the tine that Scholars leave
Upon their Setting Names—
The Iris not of Occident
That disappears as comes—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Day undressed—Herself
716
The Day undressed—Herself—
Her Garter—was of Gold—
Her Petticoat—of Purple plain—
Her Dimities—as old
Exactly—as the World—
And yet the newest Star—
Enrolled upon the Hemisphere
Be wrinkled—much as Her—
Too near to God—to pray—
Too near to Heaven—to fear—
The Lady of the Occident
Retired without a care—
Her Candle so expire
The flickering be seen
On Ball of Mast in Bosporus—
And Dome—and Window Pane—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The One who could repeat the Summer day
307
The One who could repeat the Summer day—
Were greater than itself—though He
Minutest of Mankind should be—
And He—could reproduce the Sun—
At period of going down—
The Lingering—and the Stain—I mean—
When Orient have been outgrown
And Occident—become Unknown—
His Name—remain—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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He gave away his Life
567
He gave away his Life—
To Us—Gigantic Sum—
A trifle—in his own esteem—
But magnified—by Fame—
Until it burst the Hearts
That fancied they could hold—
When swift it slipped its limit—
And on the Heavens—unrolled—
'Tis Ours—to wince—and weep—
And wonder—and decay
By Blossoms gradual process—
He chose—Maturity—
And quickening—as we sowed—
Just obviated Bud—
And when We turned to note the Growth—
Broke—perfect—from the Pod—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Some—Work for Immortality
406
Some—Work for Immortality—
The Chiefer part, for Time—
He—Compensates—immedia tely—
The former—Checks—on Fame—
Slow Gold—but Everlasting—
The Bullion of Today—
Contrasted with the Currency
Of Immortality—
A Beggar—Here and There—
Is gifted to discern
Beyond the Broker's insight—
One's—Money—One's&m dash;the Mine—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Alone, I cannot be
298
Alone, I cannot be—
For Hosts—do visit me—
Recordless Company—
Who baffle Key—
They have no Robes, nor Names—
No Almanacs—nor Climes—
But general Homes
Like Gnomes—
Their Coming, may be known
By Couriers within—
Their going—is not—
For they've never gone—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I think the longest Hour of all
635
I think the longest Hour of all
Is when the Cars have come—
And we are waiting for the Coach—
It seems as though the Time
Indignant—that the Joy was come—
Did block the Gilded Hands—
And would not let the Seconds by—
But slowest instant—ends—
The Pendulum begins to count—
Like little Scholars—loud—
The steps grow thicker—in the Hall—
The Heart begins to crowd—
Then I—my timid service done—
Tho' service 'twas, of Love—
Take up my little Violin—
And further North—remove.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Court is far away
235
The Court is far away—
No Umpire—have I—
My Sovereign is offended—
To gain his grace—I'd die!
I'll seek his royal feet—
I'll say—Remember—King—
Thou shalt—thyself—one day—a Child—
Implore a larger—thing—
That Empire—is of Czars—
As small—they say—as I—
Grant me—that day—the royalty—
To intercede—for Thee—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Again—his voice is at the door
663
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—
I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!
I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!
We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly& mdash;
Just—how—deep—
The other's one—had been—
We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—
Alone—if Angels are "alone"—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those "veiled faces"—be—
We cannot count—on High!
I'd give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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They put Us far apart
474
They put Us far apart—
As separate as Sea
And Her unsown Peninsula—
We signified "These see"—
They took away our Eyes—
They thwarted Us with Guns—
"I see Thee" each responded straight
Through Telegraphic Signs—
With Dungeons—They devised—
But through their thickest skill—
And their opaquest Adamant—
Our Souls saw—just as well—
They summoned Us to die—
With sweet alacrity
We stood upon our stapled feet—
Condemned—but just—to see—
Permission to recant—
Permission to forget—
We turned our backs upon the Sun
For perjury of that—
Not Either—noticed Death—
Of Paradise—aware—
Each other's Face—was all the Disc
Each other's setting—saw—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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You know that Portrait in the Moon
504
You know that Portrait in the Moon—
So tell me who 'tis like—
The very Brow—the stooping eyes—
A fog for—Say—Whose Sake?
The very Pattern of the Cheek—
It varies—in the Chin—
But—Ishmael—since we met—'tis long—
And fashions—intervene—
When Moon's at full—'Tis Thou—I say—
My lips just hold the name—
When crescent—Thou art worn—I note—
But—there—the Golden Same—
And when—Some Night—Bold—slashing Clouds
Cut Thee away from Me—
That's easier—than the other film
That glazes Holiday—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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This World is not Conclusion
501
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don't know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The World—stands—solemner—to me
493
The World—stands—solemner—to me—
Since I was wed—to Him—
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another's—name—
A doubt—if it be fair—indeed—
To wear that perfect—pearl—
The Man—upon the Woman—binds—
To clasp her soul—for all—
A prayer, that it more angel—prove—
A whiter Gift—within—
To that munificence, that chose—
So unadorned—a Queen—
A Gratitude—that such be true—
It had esteemed the Dream—
Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—
Or posture—to redeem!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Tis Opposites—entice
355
'Tis Opposites—entice—
Deformed Men—ponder Grace—
Bright fires—the Blanketless—
The Lost—Day's face—
The Blind—esteem it be
Enough Estate—to see—
The Captive—strangles new—
For deeming—Beggars—play—
To lack—enamor Thee—
Tho' the Divinity—
Be only
Me—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Behind Me—dips Eternity
721
Behind Me—dips Eternity—
Before Me—Immortality—
Myself—the Term between—
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin—
'Tis Kingdoms—afterward—they say—
In perfect—pauseless Monarchy—
Whose Prince—is Son of None—
Himself—His Dateless Dynasty—
Himself—Himself diversify—
In Duplicate divine—
'Tis Miracle before Me—then—
'Tis Miracle behind—between—
A Crescent in the Sea—
With Midnight to the North of Her—
And Midnight to the South of Her—
And Maelstrom—in the Sky—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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In falling Timbers buried
614
In falling Timbers buried—
There breathed a Man—
Outside—the spades—were plying—
The Lungs—within—
Could He—know—they sought Him—
Could They—know—He breathed—
Horrid Sand Partition—
Neither—could be heard—
Never slacked the Diggers—
But when Spades had done—
Oh, Reward of Anguish,
It was dying—Then—
Many Things—are fruitless—
'Tis a Baffling Earth—
But there is no Gratitude
Like the Grace—of Death—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A House upon the Height
399
A House upon the Height—
That Wagon never reached—
No Dead, were ever carried down—
No Peddler's Cart—approached—
Whose Chimney never smoked—
Whose Windows—Night and Morn—
Caught Sunrise first—and Sunset—last—
Then—held an Empty Pane—
Whose fate—Conjecture knew—
No other neighbor—did—
And what it was—we never lisped—
Because He—never told—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Unit, like Death, for Whom?
408
Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him—
The Grave is strict—
Tickets admit
Just two—the Bearer—
And the Borne—
And seat—just One—
The Living—tell—
The Dying—but a Syllable—
The Coy Dead—None—
No Chatter—here—no tea—
So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—
But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—
A tremor just, that All's not sure.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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If I'm lost—now
256
If I'm lost—now
That I was found—
Shall still my transport be—
That once—on me—those Jasper Gates
Blazed open—suddenly—
That in my awkward—gazing—face—
The Angels—softly peered—
And touched me with their fleeces,
Almost as if they cared—
I'm banished—now—you know it—
How foreign that can be—
You'll know—Sir—when the Savior's face
Turns so—away from you—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Winters are so short
403
The Winters are so short—
I'm hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—
Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it's time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—
It's mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—
And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat's a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning
925
Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.
Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?
Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—
Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—
Yet was not the foe—of any—
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me—afraid.
Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—
Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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