Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, — And I’m a rose!

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Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, Until we meet a snake; ’T is then we sigh for houses, And our departure take At that enthralling gallop That only childhood knows. A snake is summer’s treason, And guile is where it goes.

Could I but ride indefinite, As doth the meadow-bee, And visit only where I liked, And no man visit me, And flirt all day with buttercups, And marry whom I may, And dwell a little everywhere, Or better, run away With no police to follow, Or chase me if I do, Till I should jump peninsulas To get away from you, — I said, but just to be a bee Upon a raft of air, And row in nowhere all day long, And anchor off the bar, — What liberty! So captives deem Who tight in dungeons are.

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The murmuring of bees has ceased; But murmuring of some Posterior, prophetic, Has simultaneous come, — The lower metres of the year, When nature’s laugh is done, — The Revelations of the book Whose Genesis is June.

It’s all I have to bring to-day, This, and my heart beside, This, and my heart, and all the fields, And all the meadows wide. Be sure you count, should I forget, — Some one the sun could tell, — This, and my heart, and all the bees Which in the clover dwell.

You left me, sweet, two legacies, — A legacy of love A Heavenly Father would content, Had He the offer of; You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.

Alter? When the hills do. Falter? When the sun Question if his glory Be the perfect one. Surfeit? When the daffodil Doth of the dew: Even as herself, O friend! I will of you!

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity or doom. What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door!

If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I’d wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time’s uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too — And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.

That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved I did not love enough. That I shall love alway, I offer thee That love is life, And life hath immortality. This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so? And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there; And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there. Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go. And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life Some burning noon go dry!

My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks, — Say, sea, Take me!

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I’m wife; I’ve finished that, That other state; I’m Czar, I’m woman now: It’s safer so. How odd the girl’s life looks Behind this soft eclipse! I think that earth seems so To those in heaven now. This being comfort, then That other kind was pain; But why compare? I’m wife! stop there!

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files 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!

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.

The way I read a letter’s this: ’T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next, For transport it be sure. And then I go the furthest off To counteract a knock; Then draw my little letter forth And softly pick its lock. Then, glancing narrow at the wall, And narrow at the floor, For firm conviction of a mouse Not exorcised before, Peruse how infinite I am To — no one that you know! And sigh for lack of heaven, — but not The heaven the creeds bestow.

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What if I say I shall not wait? What if I burst the fleshly gate And pass, escaped, to thee? What if I file this mortal off, See where it hurt me, — that’s enough, — And wade in liberty? They cannot take us any more, — Dungeons may call, and guns implore; Unmeaning now, to me, As laughter was an hour ago, Or laces, or a travelling show, Or who died yesterday!

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath.

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Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done! For thee to bloom, I’ll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o’er! Pray gather me, Anemone, Thy flower forevermore!

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. ’T is true the drought is destitute, But then I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of sand, Its other realm of sea; Without the sterile perquisite No Caspian could be.

Poor little heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care! Proud little heart! Did they forsake thee? Be debonair! Be debonair! Frail little heart! I would not break thee: Could’st credit me? Could’st credit me? Gay little heart! Like morning glory Thou’ll wilted be; thou’ll wilted be!

I’ve got an arrow here; Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere. Fell, they will say, in “skirmish”! Vanquished, my soul will know, By but a simple arrow Sped by an archer’s bow.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!

Father, I bring thee not myself, — That were the little load; I bring thee the imperial heart I had not strength to hold. The heart I cherished in my own Till mine too heavy grew, Yet strangest, heavier since it went, Is it too large for you?

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.

Not with a club the heart is broken, Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see it. I’ve known To lash the magic creature Till it fell, Yet that whip’s name too noble Then to tell. Magnanimous of bird By boy descried, To sing unto the stone Of which it died.

Let me not mar that perfect dream By an auroral stain, But so adjust my daily night That it will come again.

I live with him, I see his face; I go no more away For visitor, or sundown; Death’s single privacy, The only one forestalling mine, And that by right that he Presents a claim invisible, No wedlock granted me. I live with him, I hear his voice, I stand alive to-day To witness to the certainty Of immortality Taught me by Time, — the lower way, Conviction every day, — That life like this is endless, Be judgment what it may.

On this long storm the rainbow rose, On this late morn the sun; The clouds, like listless elephants, Horizons straggled down. The birds rose smiling in their nests, The gales indeed were done; Alas! how heedless were the eyes On whom the summer shone! The quiet nonchalance of death No daybreak can bestir; The slow archangel’s syllables Must awaken her.

My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I’m feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be The aptitude to fly, Meadows of majesty concedes And easy sweeps of sky. So I must baffle at the hint And cipher at the sign, And make much blunder, if at last I take the clew divine.

Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, — Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?

I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth, — the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell, The lightning skipped like mice; The thunder crumbled like a stuff — How good to be safe in tombs, Where nature’s temper cannot reach, Nor vengeance ever comes!

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf, Clasped yet to him and me. And yet, my primer suits me so I would not choose a book to know Than that, be sweeter wise; Might some one else so learned be, And leave me just my A B C, Himself could have the skies.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, — The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt; But what of that? I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that? I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father’s lodge As much abasheth me. Of life? ’T were odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity’s decree. Of resurrection? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my crown!

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then ’t is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses’ heads Were toward eternity.

She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour! She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer’s eve; Less skillful than Leverrier It’s sorer to believe!