From Us She wandered now a Year
890
From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone
No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be—
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Twas just this time, last year, I died
445
'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms—
It had the Tassels on—
I thought how yellow it would look—
When Richard went to mill—
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red—Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between—
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in—
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates—
To make an even Sum—
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me—
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year—
Themself, should come to me—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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He fumbles at your Soul
315
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial&mda sh;Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—
When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—
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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Fitter to see Him, I may be
968
Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me—
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year—A trait bestow
To make Me fairest of the Earth—
The Waiting—then—will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen—then—
Time to anticipate His Gaze—
It's first—Delight—and then—Surprise—
The turning o'er and o'er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace—
He left behind One Day—So less
He seek Conviction, That—be This—
I only must not grow so new
That He'll mistake—and ask for me
Of me—when first unto the Door
I go—to Elsewhere go no more—
I only must not change so fair
He'll sigh—"The Other—She—is Where?"
The Love, tho', will array me right
I shall be perfect—in His sight—
If He perceive the other Truth—
Upon an Excellenter Youth—
How sweet I shall not lack in Vain—
But gain—thro' loss—Through Grief—obtain—
The Beauty that reward Him best—
The Beauty of Demand—at Rest—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Like eyes that looked on Wastes
458
Like eyes that looked on Wastes—
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank—and steady Wilderness—
Diversified by Night—
Just Infinites of Nought—
As far as it could see—
So looked the face I looked upon—
So looked itself—on Me—
I offered it no Help—
Because the Cause was Mine—
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless—as divine—
Neither—would be absolved—
Neither would be a Queen
Without the Other—Therefore—
We perish—tho' We reign—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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To love thee Year by Year
434
To love thee Year by Year—
May less appear
Than sacrifice, and cease—
However, dear,
Forever might be short, I thought to show—
And so I pieced it, with a flower, now.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Province of the Saved
539
The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art—To save—
Through Skill obtained in Themselves—
The Science of the Grave
No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution—in Himself—
That Man—be qualified
To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new—
Mistake Defeat for Death—Each time—
Till acclimated—to—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Have any like Myself
736
Have any like Myself
Investigating March,
New Houses on the Hill descried—
And possibly a Church—
That were not, We are sure—
As lately as the Snow—
And are Today—if We exist—
Though how may this be so?
Have any like Myself
Conjectured Who may be
The Occupants of the Adobes—
So easy to the Sky—
'Twould seem that God should be
The nearest Neighbor to—
And Heaven—a convenient Grace
For Show, or Company—
Have any like Myself
Preserved the Charm secure
By shunning carefully the Place
All Seasons of the Year,
Excepting March—'Tis then
My Villages be seen—
And possibly a Steeple—
Not afterward—by Men—
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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Through the strait pass of suffering
792
Through the strait pass of suffering—
The Martyrs—even—trod.
Their feet—upon Temptations—
Their faces—upon God—
A stately—shriven—Company—
Con vulsion—playing round—
Harmless—as streaks of Meteor—
Upon a Planet's Bond—
Their faith—the everlasting troth—
Their Expectation—fair—
The Needle—to the North Degree—
Wades—so—thro' polar Air!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A solemn thing—it was—I said
271
A solemn thing—it was—I said—
A woman—white—to be—
And wear—if God should count me fit—
Her blameless mystery—
A hallowed thing—to drop a life
Into the purple well—
Too plummetless—that it return—
Eternity—until—
I pondered how the bliss would look—
And would it feel as big—
When I could take it in my hand—
As hovering—seen—through fog—
And then—the size of this "small" life—
The Sages—call it small—
Swelled—like Horizons—in my vest—
And I sneered—softly—"small"!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note
416
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—if I should tell—
Would never be believed—
Of Robins in the Trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose Nightgowns could not hide the Wings—
Although I heard them try—
But then I promised ne'er to tell—
How could I break My Word?
So go your Way—and I'll go Mine—
No fear you'll miss the Road.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Beggar Lad—dies early
717
The Beggar Lad—dies early—
It's Somewhat in the Cold—
And Somewhat in the Trudging feet—
And haply, in the World—
The Cruel—smiling—bowing World—
That took its Cambric Way—
Nor heard the timid cry for "Bread"—
"Sweet Lady—Charity"—
Among Redeemed Children
If Trudging feet may stand
The Barefoot time forgotten—so—
The Sleet—the bitter Wind—
The Childish Hands that teased for Pence
Lifted adoring—them—
To Him whom never Ragged—Coat
Did supplicate in vain—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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All forgot for recollecting
966
All forgot for recollecting
Just a paltry One—
All forsook, for just a Stranger's
New Accompanying—
Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station
Less accounted than
An unknown Esteem possessing—
Estimate—Who can—
Home effaced—Her faces dwindled—
Nature—altered small—
Sun—if shone—or Storm—if shattered—
Overlooked I all—
Dropped—my fate—a timid Pebble—
In thy bolder Sea—
Prove—me—Sweet—if I regret it—
Prove Myself—of Thee—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I could not prove the Years had feet
563
I could not prove the Years had feet—
Yet confident they run
Am I, from symptoms that are past
And Series that are done—
I find my feet have further Goals—
I smile upon the Aims
That felt so ample—Yesterday—
Today's—have vaster claims—
I do not doubt the self I was
Was competent to me—
But something awkward in the fit—
Proves that—outgrown—I see—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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This was in the White of the Year
995
This was in the White of the Year—
That—was in the Green—
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As Daisies now to be seen—
Looking back is best that is left
Or if it be—before—
Retrospection is Prospect's half,
Sometimes, almost more.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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That I did always love
549
That I did always love
I bring thee Proof
That till I loved
I never lived—Enough—
That I shall love alway—
I argue thee
That love is life—
And life hath Immortality—
This—dost thou doubt—Sweet—
Then have I
Nothing to show
But Calvary—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
584
It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not feel the Anguish go—
But only knew by looking back—
That something—had benumbed the Track—
Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock—
I hung upon the Peg, at night.
But not the Grief—that nestled close
As needles—ladies softly press
To Cushions Cheeks—
To keep their place—
Nor what consoled it, I could trace—
Except, whereas 'twas Wilderness—
It's better—almost Peace—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I often passed the village
51
I often passed the village
When going home from school—
And wondered what they did there—
And why it was so still—
I did not know the year then—
In which my call would come—
Earlier, by the Dial,
Than the rest have gone.
It's stiller than the sundown.
It's cooler than the dawn—
The Daisies dare to come here—
And birds can flutter down—
So when you are tired—
Or perplexed—or cold—
Trust the loving promise
Underneath the mould,
Cry "it's I," "take Dollie,"
And I will enfold!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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He touched me, so I live to know
506
He touched me, so I live to know
That such a day, permitted so,
I groped upon his breast—
It was a boundless place to me
And silenced, as the awful sea
Puts minor streams to rest.
And now, I'm different from before,
As if I breathed superior air—
Or brushed a Royal Gown—
My feet, too, that had wandered so—
My Gypsy face—transfigured now—
To tenderer Renown—
Into this Port, if I might come,
Rebecca, to Jerusalem,
Would not so ravished turn—
Nor Persian, baffled at her shrine
Lift such a Crucifixial sign
To her imperial Sun.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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