Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete

by Emily Dickinson

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!

I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there 's a pair of us — don't tell! They 'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, — Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send. Secure against its own, No treason it can fear; Itself its sovereign, of itself The soul should stand in awe.

Superiority to fate Is difficult to learn. 'T is not conferred by any, But possible to earn A pittance at a time, Until, to her surprise, The soul with strict economy Subsists till Paradise.

A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.

Where every bird is bold to go, And bees abashless play, The foreigner before he knocks Must thrust the tears away.

We never know we go, — when we are going We jest and shut the door; Fate following behind us bolts it, And we accost no more.