Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

To lose one’s faith surpasses The loss of an estate, Because estates can be Replenished, — faith cannot. Inherited with life, Belief but once can be; Annihilate a single clause, And Being’s beggary.

I had a daily bliss I half indifferent viewed, Till sudden I perceived it stir, — It grew as I pursued, Till when, around a crag, It wasted from my sight, Enlarged beyond my utmost scope, I learned its sweetness right.

Life, and Death, and Giants Such as these, are still. Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill, Beetle at the candle, Or a fife’s small fame, Maintain by accident That they proclaim.

To hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind, Affords the sly presumption That, in so dense a fuzz, You, too, take cobweb attitudes Upon a plane of gauze!

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The bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that? It is not fit for table, For beggar, or for cat. A bone has obligations, A being has the same; A marrowless assembly Is culpabler than shame. But how shall finished creatures A function fresh obtain? — Old Nicodemus’ phantom Confronting us again!

The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the face A transport may reward us, Or a disgrace. Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly! Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!

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Who never wanted, — maddest joy Remains to him unknown: The banquet of abstemiousness Surpasses that of wine. Within its hope, though yet ungrasped Desire’s perfect goal, No nearer, lest reality Should disenthrall thy soul.

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight.

You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night. You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer, — Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor.

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, — This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.

Softened by Time’s consummate plush, How sleek the woe appears That threatened childhood’s citadel And undermined the years! Bisected now by bleaker griefs, We envy the despair That devastated childhood’s realm, So easy to repair.

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper Of morning and the moor, They bear no other errand, And I, no other prayer.

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, — Her admonition mild In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird. How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon, — Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower. When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky, With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies!

The day came slow, till five o’clock, Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east, The sunrise shook from fold, Like breadths of topaz, packed a night, The lady just unrolled. The happy winds their timbrels took; The birds, in docile rows, Arranged themselves around their prince (The wind is prince of those). The orchard sparkled like a Jew, — How mighty ’t was, to stay A guest in this stupendous place, The parlor of the day!

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring. She felt herself supremer, — A raised, ethereal thing; Henceforth for her what holiday! Meanwhile, her wheeling king Trailed slow along the orchards His haughty, spangled hems, Leaving a new necessity, — The want of diadems! The morning fluttered, staggered, Felt feebly for her crown, — Her unanointed forehead Henceforth her only one.

An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads, — All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus’ mystery Receives its annual reply.

To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine. It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd. The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair. So whether it be rune, Or whether it be none, Is of within; The “tune is in the tree,” The sceptic showeth me; “No, sir! In thee!”

I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me, And frigates in the upper floor Extended hempen hands, Presuming me to be a mouse Aground, upon the sands. But no man moved me till the tide Went past my simple shoe, And past my apron and my belt, And past my bodice too, And made as he would eat me up As wholly as a dew Upon a dandelion’s sleeve — And then I started too. And he — he followed close behind; I felt his silver heel Upon my ankle, — then my shoes Would overflow with pearl. Until we met the solid town, No man he seemed to know; And bowing with a mighty look At me, the sea withdrew.

An awful tempest mashed the air, The clouds were gaunt and few; A black, as of a spectre’s cloak, Hid heaven and earth from view. The creatures chuckled on the roofs And whistled in the air, And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth. And swung their frenzied hair. The morning lit, the birds arose; The monster’s faded eyes Turned slowly to his native coast, And peace was Paradise!

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Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, — Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words.

The leaves, like women, interchange Sagacious confidence; Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of Portentous inference, The parties in both cases Enjoining secrecy, — Inviolable compact To notoriety.

It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still. Eclipse was all we could see at the window, And awe was all we could feel. By and by the boldest stole out of his covert, To see if time was there. Nature was in her beryl apron, Mixing fresher air.

Frequently the woods are pink, Frequently are brown; Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see, And as oft a cranny Where it used to be. And the earth, they tell me, On its axis turned, — Wonderful rotation By but twelve performed!

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She sweeps with many-colored brooms, And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in, You dropped an amber thread; And now you’ve littered all the East With duds of emerald! And still she plies her spotted brooms, And still the aprons fly, Till brooms fade softly into stars — And then I come away.

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy. A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, — A courteous, yet harrowing grace, As guest who would be gone. And thus, without a wing, Or service of a keel, Our summer made her light escape Into the beautiful.

It can’t be summer, — that got through; It’s early yet for spring; There’s that long town of white to cross Before the blackbirds sing. It can’t be dying, — it’s too rouge, — The dead shall go in white. So sunset shuts my question down With clasps of chrysolite.

God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed. But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still. The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it. “Creator! shall I bloom?”

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. (With the first Arbutus.)

A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, ’T were 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!

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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. Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; I just wear my wings, And instead of tolling the bell for church, Our little sexton sings. God preaches, — a noted clergyman, — And the sermon is never long; So instead of getting to heaven at last, I’m going all along!

The bee is not afraid of me, I know the butterfly; The pretty people in the woods Receive me cordially. The brooks laugh louder when I come, The breezes madder play. Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists? Wherefore, O summer’s day?

Some rainbow coming from the fair! Some vision of the World Cashmere I confidently see! Or else a peacock’s purple train, Feather by feather, on the plain Fritters itself away! The dreamy butterflies bestir, Lethargic pools resume the whir Of last year’s sundered tune. From some old fortress on the sun Baronial bees march, one by one, In murmuring platoon! The robins stand as thick to-day As flakes of snow stood yesterday, On fence and roof and twig. The orchis binds her feather on For her old lover, Don the Sun, Revisiting the bog! Without commander, countless, still, The regiment of wood and hill In bright detachment stand. Behold! Whose multitudes are these? The children of whose turbaned seas, Or what Circassian land?

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This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes, These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traffic Strews the landing with opal bales; Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

There is a flower that bees prefer, And butterflies desire; To gain the purple democrat The humming-birds aspire. And whatsoever insect pass, A honey bears away Proportioned to his several dearth And her capacity. Her face is rounder than the moon, And ruddier than the gown Of orchis in the pasture, Or rhododendron worn. She doth not wait for June; Before the world is green Her sturdy little countenance Against the wind is seen, Contending with the grass, Near kinsman to herself, For privilege of sod and sun, Sweet litigants for life. And when the hills are full, And newer fashions blow, Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy. Her public is the noon, Her providence the sun, Her progress by the bee proclaimed In sovereign, swerveless tune. The bravest of the host, Surrendering the last, Nor even of defeat aware When cancelled by the frost.

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.

So bashful when I spied her, So pretty, so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets, Lest anybody find; So breathless till I passed her, So helpless when I turned And bore her, struggling, blushing, Her simple haunts beyond! For whom I robbed the dingle, For whom betrayed the dell, Many will doubtless ask me, But I shall never tell!

It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary. Auto-da-fê and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on, The sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another day For an approving God.

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake. Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf! Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door; Or has it feathers like a bird, Or billows like a shore?

A murmur in the trees to note, Not loud enough for wind; A star not far enough to seek, Nor near enough to find; A long, long yellow on the lawn, A hubbub as of feet; Not audible, as ours to us, But dapperer, more sweet; A hurrying home of little men To houses unperceived, — All this, and more, if I should tell, Would never be believed. Of robins in the trundle bed How many I espy Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings, Although I heard them try! But then I promised ne’er to tell; How could I break my word? So go your way and I’ll go mine, — No fear you’ll miss the road.