Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown; Except for winds, provincial; Except by butterflies, Unnoticed as a single dew That on the acre lies. The smallest housewife in the grass, Yet take her from the lawn, And somebody has lost the face That made existence home!

The daisy follows soft the sun, And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet. He, waking, finds the flower near. “Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?” “Because, sir, love is sweet!” We are the flower, Thou the sun! Forgive us, if as days decline, We nearer steal to Thee, — Enamoured of the parting west, The peace, the flight, the amethyst, Night’s possibility!

No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw, Nor rend with scymitar. Two bodies therefore be; Bind one, and one will flee. The eagle of his nest No easier divest And gain the sky, Than mayest thou, Except thyself may be Thine enemy; Captivity is consciousness, So’s liberty.

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You’ll know it by the row of stars Around its forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; Yet to my frugal eye Of more esteem than ducats. Oh, find it, sir, for me!

If I shouldn’t be alive When the robins come, Give the one in red cravat A memorial crumb. If I couldn’t thank you, Being just asleep, You will know I’m trying With my granite lip!

I shall know why, when time is over, And I have ceased to wonder why; Christ will explain each separate anguish In the fair schoolroom of the sky. He will tell me what Peter promised, And I, for wonder at his woe, I shall forget the drop of anguish That scalds me now, that scalds me now.

I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God! Angels, twice descending, Reimbursed my store. Burglar, banker, father, I am poor once more!

Let down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done. Thine is the stillest night, Thine the securest fold; Too near thou art for seeking thee, Too tender to be told.

At least to pray is left, is left. O Jesus! in the air I know not which thy chamber is, — I’m knocking everywhere. Thou stirrest earthquake in the South, And maelstrom in the sea; Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Hast thou no arm for me?

Step lightly on this narrow spot! The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told As far as cannon dwell, Or flag subsist, or fame export Her deathless syllable.

Morns like these we parted; Noons like these she rose, Fluttering first, then firmer, To her fair repose. Never did she lisp it, And ’t was not for me; She was mute from transport, I, from agony! Till the evening, nearing, One the shutters drew — Quick! a sharper rustling! And this linnet flew!

A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes. They perished in the seamless grass, — No eye could find the place; But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.

I noticed people disappeared, When but a little child, — Supposed they visited remote, Or settled regions wild. Now know I they both visited And settled regions wild, But did because they died, — a fact Withheld the little child!

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe, Our feet reluctant led. Before were cities, but between, The forest of the dead. Retreat was out of hope, — Behind, a sealed route, Eternity’s white flag before, And God at every gate.

Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair. Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise’ yellow noise Interrupt this ground.

If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam, And noon should burn, As it has usual done; If birds should build as early, And bees as bustling go, — One might depart at option From enterprise below! ’T is sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with daisies lie, That commerce will continue, And trades as briskly fly. It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene, That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!

She died, — this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravos The bystanders will tell! Cheerful, as to the village, Tranquil, as to repose, Chastened, as to the chapel, This humble tourist rose. Did not talk of returning, Alluded to no time When, were the gales propitious, We might look for him; Was grateful for the roses In life’s diverse bouquet, Talked softly of new species To pick another day. Beguiling thus the wonder, The wondrous nearer drew; Hands bustled at the moorings — The crowd respectful grew. Ascended from our vision To countenances new! A difference, a daisy, Is all the rest I knew!

Great streets of silence led away To neighborhoods of pause; Here was no notice, no dissent, No universe, no laws. By clocks ’t was morning, and for night The bells at distance called; But epoch had no basis here, For period exhaled.

A throe upon the features A hurry in the breath, An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death,” — An anguish at the mention, Which, when to patience grown, I’ve known permission given To rejoin its own.

We learn in the retreating How vast an one Was recently among us. A perished sun Endears in the departure How doubly more Than all the golden presence It was before!

They say that “time assuages,” — Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble, But not a remedy. If such it prove, it prove too There was no malady.

We cover thee, sweet face. Not that we tire of thee, But that thyself fatigue of us; Remember, as thou flee, We follow thee until Thou notice us no more, And then, reluctant, turn away To con thee o’er and o’er, And blame the scanty love We were content to show, Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold If thou would’st take it now.

That is solemn we have ended, — Be it but a play, Or a glee among the garrets, Or a holiday, Or a leaving home; or later, Parting with a world We have understood, for better Still it be unfurled.

Given in marriage unto thee, Oh, thou celestial host! Bride of the Father and the Son, Bride of the Holy Ghost! Other betrothal shall dissolve, Wedlock of will decay; Only the keeper of this seal Conquers mortality.

That such have died enables us The tranquiller to die; That such have lived, certificate For immortality.

When I forget to tease, They’ll recollect how cold I looked, And how I just said “please.” Then they will hasten to the door To call the little child, Who cannot thank them, for the ice That on her lisping piled.

It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one’s hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street, That we’ve immortal place, Though pyramids decay, And kingdoms, like the orchard, Flit russetly away.

How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account Have settled with the year! — Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality, Bequeaths him to the night. In deference to him Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam, Seek it with the knife, Baffle, if it cost you Everything in life. Then, if it have burrowed Out of reach of skill, Ring the tree and leave it, — ’T is the vermin’s will.

’T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou No station in the day? ’T was not thy wont to hinder so, — Retrieve thine industry. ’T is noon, my little maid, alas! And art thou sleeping yet? The lily waiting to be wed, The bee, dost thou forget? My little maid, ’t is night; alas, That night should be to thee Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet, I might have aided thee.

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

As far from pity as complaint, As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation As if my trade were bone. As far from time as history, As near yourself to-day As children to the rainbow’s scarf, Or sunset’s yellow play To eyelids in the sepulchre. How still the dancer lies, While color’s revelations break, And blaze the butterflies!

’T is whiter than an Indian pipe, ’T is dimmer than a lace; No stature has it, like a fog, When you approach the place. Not any voice denotes it here, Or intimates it there; A spirit, how doth it accost? What customs hath the air? This limitless hyperbole Each one of us shall be; ’T is drama, if (hypothesis) It be not tragedy!

She laid her docile crescent down, And this mechanic stone Still states, to dates that have forgot, The news that she is gone. So constant to its stolid trust, The shaft that never knew, It shames the constancy that fled Before its emblem flew.

Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time, ’T is a necessity. Of heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand, It had been heaven below.

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

The grave my little cottage is, Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly, And lay the marble tea, For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite In strong society.

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think As daisies now to be seen. Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect’s half, Sometimes almost more.

Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet Our bashful feet. My holiday shall be That they remember me; My paradise, the fame That they pronounce my name.

I wish I knew that woman’s name, So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears, For fear I hear her say She’s “sorry I am dead,” again, Just when the grave and I Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, — Our only lullaby.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to be Upon a new peninsula, — The grave preceded me, Obtained my lodgings ere myself, And when I sought my bed, The grave it was, reposed upon The pillow for my head. I waked, to find it first awake, I rose, — it followed me; I tried to drop it in the crowd, To lose it in the sea, In cups of artificial drowse To sleep its shape away, — The grave was finished, but the spade Remained in memory.

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed For just this single time; But Death had told her so the first, And she had hearkened him. To wander now is my abode; To rest, — to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and me.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

Superfluous were the sun When excellence is dead; He were superfluous every day, For every day is said That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair, And whose “I’ll meet you” hesitates If love inquire, “Where?” Upon his dateless fame Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous From an abundant sky.

So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy.

The dying need but little, dear, — A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret, And certainly that one No color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone.

The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, — Her visitor no more.

I wonder if the sepulchre Is not a lonesome way, When men and boys, and larks and June Go down the fields to hay!