Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

Not any higher stands the grave For heroes than for men; Not any nearer for the child Than numb three-score and ten.

Of heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand, It had been heaven below.

Sweet hours have perished here; This is a mighty room; Within its precincts hopes have played, — Now shadows in the tomb.

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.

If tolling bell I ask the cause. “A soul has gone to God,” I’m answered in a lonesome tone; Is heaven then so sad? That bells should joyful ring to tell A soul had gone to heaven, Would seem to me the proper way A good news should be given.

Water is taught by thirst; Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe; Peace, by its battles told; Love, by memorial mould; Birds, by the snow.

This bird, observing others, When frosts too sharp became, Retire to other latitudes, Quietly did the same, But differed in returning; Since Yorkshire hills are green, Yet not in all the nests I meet Can nightingale be seen.

Soft fall the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear; Oh, what an afternoon for heaven, When Brontë entered there!

A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, — Of earl and midge The privilege. Why swagger then? The gnat’s supremacy Is large as thine.

Far from love the Heavenly Father Leads the chosen child; Oftener through realm of briar Than the meadow mild, Oftener by the claw of dragon Than the hand of friend, Guides the little one predestined To the native land.

On this wondrous sea, Sailing silently, Knowest thou the shore Ho! pilot, ho! Where no breakers roar, Where the storm is o’er? In the silent west Many sails at rest, Their anchors fast; Thither I pilot thee, — Land, ho! Eternity! Ashore at last!

Today is far from childhood, But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter, Which shortened all the miles.

Adventure most unto itself The Soul condemned to be; Attended by a Single Hound — Its own Identity.

Reverse cannot befall that fine Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake, In far Bolivian ground; Misfortune hath no implement Could mar it, if it found.

To be alive is power, Existence in itself, Without a further function, Omnipotence enough. To be alive and Will — ’T is able as a God! The Further of ourselves be what — Such being Finitude?

The blunder is to estimate, — “Eternity is Then,” We say, as of a station. Meanwhile he is so near, He joins me in my ramble, Divides abode with me, No friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.

Down Time’s quaint stream Without an oar, We are enforced to sail, Our Port — a secret — Our Perchance — a gale. What Skipper would Incur the risk, What Buccaneer would ride, Without a surety from the wind Or schedule of the tide?

I Bet with every Wind that blew, till Nature in chagrin Employed a Fact to visit me and scuttle my Balloon!

Nature is what we know But have no art to say, So impotent our wisdom is To Her simplicity.

Ah, Teneriffe! Retreating Mountain! Purples of Ages pause for you, Sunset reviews her Sapphire Regiment, Day drops you her red Adieu! Still, clad in your mail of ices, Thigh of granite and thew of steel — Heedless, alike, of pomp or parting, Ah, Teneriffe! I’m kneeling still. 36

Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie, The Day that a companion came — Or was obliged to die.

Like Men and Women shadows walk Upon the hills today, With here and there a mighty bow, Or trailing courtesy To Neighbors, doubtless, of their own; Not quickened to perceive Minuter landscape, as Ourselves And Boroughs where we live.

That was a wondrous booty, I hope ’t was honest gained — Those were the finest ingots That ever kissed the spade.

Forever cherished be the tree, Whose apple Winter warm, Enticed to breakfast from the sky Two Gabriels yestermorn; They registered in Nature’s book As Robin — Sire and Son, But angels have that modest way To screen them from renown.

A prompt, executive Bird is the Jay, Bold as a Bailiff’s hymn, Brittle and brief in quality — Warrant in every line; Sitting a bough like a Brigadier, Confident and straight, Much is the mien Of him in March As a Magistrate.

Today or this noon She dwelt so close, I almost touched her; Tonight she lies Past neighborhood — And bough and steeple — Now past surmise.

If pain for peace prepares, Lo the “Augustan” years Our feet await!

Papa above! Regard a Mouse O’erpowered by the Cat; Reserve within thy kingdom A “mansion” for the Rat!

To this apartment deep No ribaldry may creep; Untroubled this abode By any man but God.

Who is it seeks my pillow nights? With plain inspecting face, “Did you, or did you not?” to ask, ’T is Conscience, childhood’s nurse.

“Heavenly Father,” take to thee The supreme iniquity, Fashioned by thy candid hand In a moment contraband. Though to trust us seem to us More respectful — “we are dust.” We apologize to Thee For Thine own Duplicity. 103 The

Behold! said the Apostle, Yet had not seen.

The treason of an accent Might vilify the Joy — To breathe, — corrode the rapture Of Sanctity to be.

If I could tell how glad I was, I should not be so glad, But when I cannot make the Force Nor mould it into word, I know it is a sign That new Dilemma be From mathematics further off, Than from Eternity.

Her Grace is all she has, And that, so vast displays, One Art, to recognize, must be, Another Art to praise.

No matter where the Saints abide, They make their circuit fair; Behold how great a Firmament Accompanies a star!

That she forgot me was the least, I felt it second pain, That I was worthy to forget Was most I thought upon.