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The Inevitable
Poet: Emily Dickinson
While I was fearing it, it came,
But came with less of fear,
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it dear.
There is a fitting a dismay,
A fitting a despair.
‘Tis harder knowing it is due,
Than knowing it is here.
The trying on the utmost,
The morning it is new,
Is terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through. -
New Feet Within My Garden Go
Poet: Emily Dickinson
New feet within my garden go,
New fingers stir the sod;
A troubadour upon the elm
Betrays the solitude.
New children play upon the green,
New weary sleep below;
And still the pensive spring returns,
And still the punctual snow! -
Parting
Poet: Emily Dickinson
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me.
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell;
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell. -
I Shall Know Why, When Time Is Over
Poet: Emily Dickinson
I shall know why, when time is over,
And I have ceased to wonder why;
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised,
And I, for wonder at his woe,
I shall forget the drop of anguish
That scalds me now, that scalds me now. -
A Book
Poet: Emily Dickinson
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul! -
Joy In Death
Poet: Emily Dickinson
If tolling bell I ask the cause.
‘A soul has gone to God,’
I’m answered in a lonesome tone;
Is heaven then so sad?
That bells should joyful ring to tell
A soul had gone to heaven,
Would seem to me the proper way
A good news should be given. -
Thanksgiving Day
Poet: Emily Dickinson
One day is there of the series
Termed Thanksgiving day,
Celebrated part at table,
Part in memory.
Neither patriarch nor pussy,
I dissect the play;
Seems it, to my hooded thinking,
Reflex holiday.
Had there been no sharp subtraction
From the early sum,
Not an acre or a caption
Where was once a room,
Not a mention, whose small pebble
Wrinkled any bay,
Unto such, were such assembly,
‘Twere Thanksgiving day. -
Hope
Poet: Emily Dickinson
Hope is a subtle glutton;
He feeds upon the fair;
And yet, inspected closely,
What abstinence is there!
His is the halcyon table
That never seats but one,
And whatsoever is consumed
The same amounts remain. -
Heaven Is What I Cannot Reach!
Poet: Emily Dickinson
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang,
That ‘heaven’ is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind,
There Paradise is found! -
Good-Night
Poet: Emily Dickinson
As children bid the guest good-night,
And then reluctant turn,
My flowers raise their pretty lips,
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake,
Merry that it is morn,
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again. -
The Wind
Poet: Emily Dickinson
It’s like the light,
A fashionless delight
It’s like the bee,
A dateless melody.
It’s like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.
It’s like the morning,
Best when it’s done,
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon. -
A Light Exists In Spring
Poet: Emily Dickinson
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament. -
Choice
Poet: Emily Dickinson
Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit flies away,
And subterfuge is done;
When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand.
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;
When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away,
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay! -
Summer Shower
Poet: Emily Dickinson
A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.
A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.
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