An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied,—
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Again—his voice is at the door—
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I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—
I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
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I might surprise his eye!
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Just his face—nothing more!
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The other's one—had been—
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Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—
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The Court is far away
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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—
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Grant me—that day—the royalty—
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When I hoped, I recollect
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Not a frost could cool—
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Not Merino shawl—
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Bird went praising everywhere—
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You know that Portrait in the Moon
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You know that Portrait in the Moon—
So tell me who 'tis like—
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A fog for—Say—Whose Sake?
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The Winters are so short
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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—
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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—
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If I'm lost—now
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If I'm lost—now
That I was found—
Shall still my transport be—
That once—on me—those Jasper Gates
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That in my awkward—gazing—face—
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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—
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note—
Not loud enough—for Wind—
A Star—not far enough to seek—
Nor near enough—to find—
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A Hubbub—as of feet—
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How could I break My Word?
So go your Way—and I'll go Mine—
No fear you'll miss the Road.
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Through the strait pass of suffering
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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—
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The Needle—to the North Degree—
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The Day undressed—Herself—
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Her Petticoat—of Purple plain—
Her Dimities—as old
Exactly—as the World—
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Be wrinkled—much as Her—
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The flickering be seen
On Ball of Mast in Bosporus—
And Dome—and Window Pane—
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Deformed Men—ponder Grace—
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The Lost—Day's face—
The Blind—esteem it be
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Tho' the Divinity—
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He gave away his Life
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He gave away his Life—
To Us—Gigantic Sum—
A trifle—in his own esteem—
But magnified—by Fame—
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That fancied they could hold—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness—
I'm so accustomed to my Fate—
Perhaps the Other—Peace—
Would interrupt the Dark—
And crowd the little Room—
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I am not used to Hope—
It might intrude upon—
Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—
Ordained to Suffering—
It might be easier
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Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—
To perish—of Delight—
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The World—stands—solemner—to me
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The World—stands—solemner—to me—
Since I was wed—to Him—
A modesty befits the soul
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Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—
Or posture—to redeem!
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The Murmur of a Bee
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The Murmur of a Bee
A Witchcraft—yieldeth me—
If any ask me why—
'Twere easier to die—
Than tell—
The Red upon the Hill
Taketh away my will—
If anybody sneer—
Take care—for God is here—
That's all.
The Breaking of the Day
Addeth to my Degree—
If any ask me how—
Artist—who drew me so—
Must tell!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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What if I say I shall not wait!
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What if I say I shall not wait!
What if I burst the fleshly Gate—
And pass escaped—to thee!
What if I file this Mortal—off—
See where it hurt me—That's enough—
And wade in Liberty!
They cannot take me—any more!
Dungeons can call—and Guns implore
Unmeaning—now—to me—
As laughter—was—an hour ago—
Or Laces—or a Travelling Show—
Or who died—yesterday!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I gave myself to Him
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I gave myself to Him—
And took Himself, for Pay,
The solemn contract of a Life
Was ratified, this way—
The Wealth might disappoint—
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great Purchaser suspect,
The Daily Own—of Love
Depreciate the Vision—
But till the Merchant buy—
Still Fable—in the Isles of Spice—
The subtle Cargoes—lie—
At least—'tis Mutual—Risk—
Some—found it—Mutual Gain—
Sweet Debt of Life—Each Night to owe—
Insolvent—every Noon—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I should have been too glad, I see
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I should have been too glad, I see—
Too lifted—for the scant degree
Of Life's penurious Round—
My little Circuit would have shamed
This new Circumference—have blamed—
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved—I see—
Too rescued—Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect—yesterday—
That Scalding One—Sabachthani—
Recited fluent—here—
Earth would have been too much—I see—
And Heaven—not enough for me—
I should have had the Joy
Without the Fear—to justify—
The Palm—without the Calvary—
So Savior—Crucify—
Defeat—whets Victory—they say—
The Reefs—in old Gethsemane—
Endear the Coast—beyond!
'Tis Beggars—Banquets—can define—
'Tis Parching—vitalizes Wine—
"Faith" bleats—to understand!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I meant to have but modest needs
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I meant to have but modest needs—
Such as Content—and Heaven—
Within my income—these could lie
And Life and I—keep even—
But since the last—included both—
It would suffice my Prayer
But just for One—to stipulate—
And Grace would grant the Pair—
And so—upon this wise—I prayed—
Great Spirit—Give to me
A Heaven not so large as Yours,
But large enough—for me—
A Smile suffused Jehovah's face—
The Cherubim—withdrew—
Grave Saints stole out to look at me—
And showed their dimples—too—
I left the Place, with all my might—
I threw my Prayer away—
The Quiet Ages picked it up—
And Judgment—twinkled—too—
Tat one so honest—be extant—
It take the Tale for true—
That "Whatsoever Ye shall ask—
Itself be given You"—
But I, grown shrewder—scan the Skies
With a suspicious Air—
As Children—swindled for the first
All Swindlers—be—infer—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Did Our Best Moment last
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Did Our Best Moment last—
'Twould supersede the Heaven—
A few—and they by Risk—procure—
So this Sort—are not given—
Except as stimulants—in
Cases of Despair—
Or Stupor—The Reserve—
These Heavenly Moments are—
A Grant of the Divine—
That Certain as it Comes—
Withdraws—and leaves the dazzled Soul
In her unfurnished Rooms
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I had no Cause to be awake
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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—
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And taking but a Prayer—
The only Raiment I should need—
I struggled—and was There—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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