More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Read between
October 26 - November 4, 2023
To those who knew Emily in life she was a denizen of awe. "Areas of the supernatural she recognized about her."
as long ago as 1860 Emily was outdating the imagists and writing free verse of her own invention. Her revolt was absolute; she abandoned rhyme altogether when she chose, and even assonance, writing in metre alone, like a Greek.
She saw, she grasped, she set it down.
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.
Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
Mine by the right of the white election! Mine by the royal seal! Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison Bars cannot conceal! Mine, here in vision and in veto! Mine, by the grave's repeal Titled, confirmed, — delirious charter! Mine, while the ages steal!
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss, Known by the knoll, Next to the robin In every human soul. Bold little beauty, Bedecked with thee, Nature forswears Antiquity.
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome.
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!
When I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared;
The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.
The skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills — The hills just tell the orchards — And they the daffodils!
It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road.
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose,
His laughter like the breeze That dies away in dimples Among the pensive trees.
I went to heaven, — 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby,
One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.
Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath.
