Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, — The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me!

’T is so much joy! ’T is so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so This side the victory! Life is but life, and death but death! Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath! And if, indeed, I fail, At least to know the worst is sweet. Defeat means nothing but defeat, No drearier can prevail! And if I gain, — oh, gun at sea, Oh, bells that in the steeples be, At first repeat it slow! For heaven is a different thing Conjectured, and waked sudden in, And might o’erwhelm me so!

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.

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old; What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man; When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before, He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true; He lived where dreams were born. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so.

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur, — you’re straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more. Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing At her low gate; Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling Upon her mat. I’ve known her from an ample nation Choose one; Then close the valves of her attention Like stone.

Some things that fly there be, — Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy. Some things that stay there be, — Grief, hills, eternity: Nor this behooveth me. There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe. Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love. We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It’s time to smooth the hair And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

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 had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.

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!

I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, — as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark; — How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

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.

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy. For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years, Bitter contested farthings And coffers heaped with tears.

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.

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the culprit, — Life!

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain, — More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little, — And that’s the skies!

A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish, — some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came The second time to me, Nor definitely what it was, Have I the art to say. But somewhere in my soul, I know I’ve met the thing before; It just reminded me — ’t was all — And came my way no more.

50

Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!

Except the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so; I had not hoped before. But just to hear the grace depart I never thought to see, Afflicts me with a double loss; ’T is lost, and lost to me.

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind. The vane a little to the east Scares muslin souls away; If broadcloth breasts are firmer Than those of organdy, Who is to blame? The weaver? Ah! the bewildering thread! The tapestries of paradise So notelessly are made!

62

When I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain; Spectre cannot harm, Serpent cannot charm; He deposes doom, Who hath suffered him.

Mine enemy is growing old, — I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, — Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; ’T is starving makes it fat.

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.

Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise. As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library. It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within. I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.

I gained it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy. I said I gained it, — This was all. Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall, And I a pauper go; Unfitted by an instant’s grace For the contented beggar’s face I wore an hour ago.

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.

’T is little I could care for pearls Who own the ample sea; Or brooches, when the Emperor With rubies pelteth me; Or gold, who am the Prince of Mines; Or diamonds, when I see A diadem to fit a dome Continual crowning me.

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.

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.

Forbidden fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks; How luscious lies the pea within The pod that Duty locks!

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!

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

It’s such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh; And yet by trades the size of these We men and women die!

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.

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.

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. ’T is 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.

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!

Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God’s residence is next to mine, His furniture is love.

Few get enough, — enough is one; To that ethereal throng Have not each one of us the right To stealthily belong?

I felt a clearing in my mind As if my brain had split; I tried to match it, seam by seam, But could not make them fit. The thought behind I strove to join Unto the thought before, But sequence ravelled out of reach Like balls upon a floor.

If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not; And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot! And if to miss were merry, And if to mourn were gay, How very blithe the fingers That gathered these to-day!

Are friends delight or pain? Could bounty but remain Riches were good. But if they only stay Bolder to fly away, Riches are sad.

Ashes denote that fire was; Respect the grayest pile For the departed creature’s sake That hovered there awhile. Fire exists the first in light, And then consolidates, — Only the chemist can disclose Into what carbonates.

I measure every grief I meet With analytic eyes; I wonder if it weighs like mine, Or has an easier size. I wonder if they bore it long, Or did it just begin? I could not tell the date of mine, It feels so old a pain. I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die. I wonder if when years have piled — Some thousands — on the cause Of early hurt, if such a lapse Could give them any pause; Or would they go on aching still Through centuries above, Enlightened to a larger pain By contrast with the love. The grieved are many, I am told; The reason deeper lies, — Death is but one and comes but once, And only nails the eyes. There’s grief of want, and grief of cold, — A sort they call “despair”; There’s banishment from native eyes, In sight of native air. And though I may not guess the kind Correctly, yet to me A piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary, To note the fashions of the cross, Of those that stand alone, Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own.