The Sun is gay or stark
878
The Sun is gay or stark
According to our Deed.
If Merry, He is merrier—
If eager for the Dead
Or an expended Day
He helped to make too bright
His mighty pleasure suits Us not
It magnifies our Freight
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink
566
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
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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She lay as if at play
369
She lay as if at play
Her life had leaped away—
Intending to return—
But not so soon—
Her merry Arms, half dropt—
As if for lull of sport—
An instant had forgot—
The Trick to start—
Her dancing Eyes—ajar—
As if their Owner were
Still sparkling through
For fun—at you—
Her Morning at the door—
Devising, I am sure—
To force her sleep—
So light—so deep—
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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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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We learned the Whole of Love
568
We learned the Whole of Love—
The Alphabet—the Words—
A Chapter—then the mighty Book—
Then—Revelation closed—
But in Each Other's eyes
An Ignorance beheld—
Diviner than the Childhood's—
And each to each, a Child—
Attempted to expound
What Neither—understood—
Alas, that Wisdom is so large—
And Truth—so manifold!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I think the Hemlock likes to stand
525
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—
Lapland's—necessity—
The Hemlock's nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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There is an arid Pleasure
782
There is an arid Pleasure—
As different from Joy—
As Frost is different from Dew—
Like element—are they—
Yet one—rejoices Flowers—
And one—the Flowers abhor—
The finest Honey—curdled—
Is worthless—to the Bee—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I asked no other thing
621
I asked no other thing—
No other—was denied—
I offered Being—for it—
The Mighty Merchant sneered—
Brazil? He twirled a Button—
Without a glance my way—
"But—Madam—is there nothing else—
That We can show—Today?"
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I think just how my shape will rise
237
I think just how my shape will rise—
When I shall be "forgiven"—
Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Head—
Are out of sight—in Heaven—
I think just how my lips will weigh—
With shapeless—quivering—prayer—
That you—so late—"Consider" me—
The "Sparrow" of your Care—
I mind me that of Anguish—sent—
Some drifts were moved away—
Before my simple bosom—broke—
And why not this—if they?
And so I con that thing—"forgiven"—
Until& mdash;delirious—borne—
By my long bright—and longer—trust—
I drop my Heart—unshriven!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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How many Flowers fail in Wood
404
How many Flowers fail in Wood—
Or perish from the Hill—
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful—
How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze—
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight—
It bear to Other Eyes—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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It feels a shame to be Alive
444
It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle's—horrid Bowl?
It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I tend my flowers for thee
339
I tend my flowers for thee—
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia's Coral Seams
Rip—while the Sower—dreams—
Geraniums— tint—and spot—
Low Daisies—dot—
My Cactus—splits her Beard
To show her throat—
Carnations—tip their spice—
And Bees—pick up—
A Hyacinth—I hid—
Puts out a Ruffled Head—
And odors fall
From flasks—so small—
You marvel how they held—
Globe Roses—break their satin glake—
Upon my Garden floor—
Yet—thou—not there—
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson—more—
Thy flower—be gay—
Her Lord—away!
It ill becometh me—
I'll dwell in Calyx—Gray—
How modestly—alway—
Thy Daisy—
Draped for thee!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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We pray—to Heaven
489
We pray—to Heaven—
We prate—of Heaven—
Relate—when Neighbors die—
At what o'clock to heaven—they fled—
Who saw them—Wherefore fly?
Is Heaven a Place—a Sky—a Tree?
Location's narrow way is for Ourselves—
Unto the Dead
There's no Geography—
But State—Endowal—Focus—
Where&m dash;Omnipresence—fly?
poem by Emily Dickinson
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You taught me Waiting with Myself
740
You taught me Waiting with Myself—
Appointment strictly kept—
You taught me fortitude of Fate—
This—also—I have learnt—
An Altitude of Death, that could
No bitterer debar
Than Life—had done—before it—
Yet—there is a Science more—
The Heaven you know—to understand
That you be not ashamed
Of Me—in Christ's bright Audience
Upon the further Hand—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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That first Day, when you praised Me, Sweet
659
That first Day, when you praised Me, Sweet,
And said that I was strong—
And could be mighty, if I liked—
That Day—the Days among—
Glows Central—like a Jewel
Between Diverging Golds—
The Minor One—that gleamed behind—
And Vaster—of the World's.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Tis good—the looking back on Grief
660
'Tis good—the looking back on Grief—
To re-endure a Day—
We thought the Mighty Funeral—
Of All Conceived Joy—
To recollect how Busy Grass
Did meddle—one by one—
Till all the Grief with Summer—waved
And none could see the stone.
And though the Woe you have Today
Be larger—As the Sea
Exceeds its Unremembered Drop—
They're Water—equally—
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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What care the Dead, for Chanticleer
592
What care the Dead, for Chanticleer—
What care the Dead for Day?
'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face—
And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning
Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool—
What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate—
And knew One Bird a Tune—
Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be—
This One—beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be—
What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze—
June Noon—as January Night—
As soon the South—her Breeze
Of Sycamore—or Cinnamon—
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm—
Give Spices—unto Men—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Birds reported from the South
743
The Birds reported from the South—
A News express to Me—
A spicy Charge, My little Posts—
But I am deaf—Today—
The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng—
I reinforced the Door—
Go blossom for the Bees—I said—
And trouble Me—no More—
The Summer Grace, for Notice strove—
Remote—Her best Array—
The Heart—to stimulate the Eye
Refused too utterly—
At length, a Mourner, like Myself,
She drew away austere—
Her frosts to ponder—then it was
I recollected Her—
She suffered Me, for I had mourned—
I offered Her no word—
My Witness—was the Crape I bore—
Her—Witness—was Her Dead—
Thenceforward—We—t ogether dwelt—
I never questioned Her—
Our Contract
A Wiser Sympathy
poem by Emily Dickinson
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