Me, change! Me, alter!
268
Me, change! Me, alter!
Then I will, when on the Everlasting Hill
A Smaller Purple grows—
At sunset, or a lesser glow
Flickers upon Cordillera—
At Day's superior close!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I dwell in Possibility
657
I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—
Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—
Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide of narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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We see—Comparatively
534
We see—Comparatively—
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided—Yesterday—
This Morning's finer Verdict—
Makes scarcely worth the toil—
A furrow—Our Cordillera—
Our Apennine—a Knoll—
Perhaps 'tis kindly—done us—
The Anguish—and the loss—
The wrenching—for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us—
To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin—
The waking in a Gnat's—embrace—
Our Giants—further on—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Forever at His side to walk
246
Forever at His side to walk—
The smaller of the two!
Brain of His Brain—
Blood of His Blood—
Two lives—One Being—now—
Forever of His fate to taste—
If grief—the largest part—
If joy—to put my piece away
For that beloved Heart—
All life—to know each other—
Whom we can never learn—
And bye and bye—a Change—
Called Heaven—
Rapt Neighborhoods of Men—
Just finding out—what puzzled us—
Without the lexicon!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Of Tribulation, these are They
325
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—stood whispering in the House—
And all we said—was "Saved"!
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 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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The Sunrise runs for Both
710
The Sunrise runs for Both—
The East—Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill—
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two—
Remotest—still—
Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each—to set—
Wicks wide away—
The North—Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine—
Till Both—can see—
The Midnight's Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so
Upon Her Bosom—One—
And One upon Her Hem—
Both lie—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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God made a little Gentian
442
God made a little Gentian—
It tried—to be a Rose—
And failed—and all the Summer laughed—
But just before the Snows
There rose a Purple Creature—
That ravished all the Hill—
And Summer hid her Forehead—
And Mockery—was still—
The Frosts were her condition—
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North—invoke it—
Creator—Shall I—bloom?
poem by Emily Dickinson
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This—is the land—the Sunset washes
266
This—is the land—the Sunset washes—
These—are the Banks of the Yellow Sea—
Where it rose—or whither it rushes—
These—are the Western Mystery!
Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales—
Merchantmen—poise upon Horizons—
Dip—and vanish like Orioles!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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They called me to the Window, for
628
They called me to the Window, for
" 'Twas Sunset"—Some one said—
I only saw a Sapphire Farm—
And just a Single Herd—
Of Opal Cattle—feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill—
As even while I looked—dissolved—
Nor Cattle were—nor Soil—
But in their stead—a Sea—displayed—
And Ships—of such a size
As Crew of Mountains—could afford—
And Decks—to seat the skies—
This—too—the Showman rubbed away—
And when I looked again—
Nor Farm—nor Opal Herd—was there—
Nor Mediterranean—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The name—of it—is "Autumn"
656
The name—of it—is "Autumn"—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—
It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Love—thou art high
453
Love—thou art high—
I cannot climb thee—
But, were it Two—
Who know but we—
Taking turns—at the Chimborazo—
Ducal—at last—stand up by thee—
Love—thou are deep—
I cannot cross thee—
But, were there Two
Instead of One—
Rower, and Yacht—some sovereign Summer—
Who knows—but we'd reach the Sun?
Love—thou are Veiled—
A few—behold thee—
Smile—and alter—and prattle—and die—
Bliss—were an Oddity—without thee—
Nicknamed by God—
Eternity—
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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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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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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I had no Cause to be awake
542
I had no Cause to be awake—
My Best—was gone to sleep—
And Morn a new politeness took—
And failed to wake them up—
But called the others—clear—
And passed their Curtains by—
Sweet Morning—when I oversleep—
Knock—Recollect—to Me—
I looked at Sunrise—Once—
And then I looked at Them—
And wishfulness in me arose—
For Circumstance the same—
'Twas such an Ample Peace—
It could not hold a Sigh—
'Twas Sabbath—with the Bells divorced—
'Twas Sunset—all the Day—
So choosing but a Gown—
And taking but a Prayer—
The only Raiment I should need—
I struggled—and was There—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Angle of a Landscape
375
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane's Forefinger—
But that's—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds&m dash;which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple's finger—
These—never stir at all—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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To know just how He suffered—would be dear
622
To know just how He suffered—would be dear—
To know if any Human eyes were near
To whom He could entrust His wavering gaze—
Until it settle broad—on Paradise—
To know if He was patient—part content—
Was Dying as He thought—or different—
Was it a pleasant Day to die—
And did the Sunshine face his way—
What was His furthest mind—Of Home—or God—
Or what the Distant say—
At news that He ceased Human Nature
Such a Day—
And Wishes—Had He Any—
Just His Sigh—Accented—
Had been legible—to Me—
And was He Confident until
Ill fluttered out—in Everlasting Well—
And if He spoke—What name was Best—
What last
What One broke off with
At the Drowsiest—
Was He afraid—or tranquil—
Might He know
How Conscious Consciousness—could grow—
Till Love that was—and Love too best to be—
Meet—and the Junction be Eternity
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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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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