Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

Life is but life, and death but death! Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath! And if, indeed, I fail, At least to know the worst is sweet. Defeat means nothing but defeat, No drearier can prevail!

If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.

Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It’s time to smooth the hair And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

And so, upon this wise I prayed, — Great Spirit, give to me A heaven not so large as yours, But large enough for me.

Earth would have been too much, I see, And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, —

Few get enough, — enough is one; To that ethereal throng Have not each one of us the right To stealthily belong?

How condescending to descend, And be of buttercups the friend In a New England town!

Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?” “Because, sir, love is sweet!”

Perhaps you’re going too! Who knows? If you should get there first, Save just a little place for me Close to the two I lost! The smallest “robe” will fit me, And just a bit of “crown”; For you know we do not mind our dress When we are going home.

A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become;

In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, —

At rest his fingers are. Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.

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.

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

Beauty crowds me till I die, Beauty, mercy have on me! But if I expire today, Let it be in sight of thee.

Peasants like me — Peasants like thee, Gaze perplexedly.

Or Longing, — and is that for us Or values more severe?

If I were half so fine myself, I’d notice nobody!

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love; It is enough, the freight should be Proportioned to the groove.

To love thee, year by year, May less appear Than sacrifice and cease. However, Dear, Forever might be short I thought, to show, And so I pieced it with a flower now.