Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?

Hope is a subtle glutton; He feeds upon the fair;

I measure every grief I meet With analytic eyes; I wonder if it weighs like mine, Or has an easier size.

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 mountain sat upon the plain In his eternal chair, His observation omnifold, His inquest everywhere. The seasons prayed around his knees, Like children round a sire: Grandfather of the days is he, Of dawn the ancestor.

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!

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me;

She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour!

One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.