Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

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.

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell! They’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the culprit, — Life!

Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!

Except the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so; I had not hoped before. But just to hear the grace depart I never thought to see, Afflicts me with a double loss; ’T is lost, and lost to me.

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts At window and at door. It’s past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless, — the disease Not even God can heal; For ’t is His institution, — The complement of hell. 70 The

’T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.

Prayer is the little implement Through which men reach Where presence is denied them. They fling their speech

Forbidden fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks; How luscious lies the pea within The pod that Duty locks!

Heaven is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me. The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind, — There Paradise is found!

A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.

It’s such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh; And yet by trades the size of these We men and women die!

Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, ’t is said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode Where hope and he part company, — For he is grasped of God. The Maker’s cordial visage, However good to see, Is shunned, we must admit it, Like an adversity.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.

While I was fearing it, it came, But came with less of fear, Because that fearing it so long Had almost made it dear. There is a fitting a dismay, A fitting a despair. ’T is harder knowing it is due, Than knowing it is here. The trying on the utmost, The morning it is new, Is terribler than wearing it A whole existence through.

There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.

And when this mournful ditty, Accompanied with tear, Shall meet the eye of traitor In country far from here, Grant that repentance solemn May seize upon his mind, And he no consolation Beneath the sun may find.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome.

God preaches, — a noted clergyman, — And the sermon is never long; So instead of getting to heaven at last, I’m going all along!

Auto-da-fê and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on, The sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another day For an approving God.

But then I promised ne’er to tell; How could I break my word? So go your way and I’ll go mine, — No fear you’ll miss the road.

The spider as an artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit Is freely certified By every broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian land. Neglected son of genius, I take thee by the hand.

How the old mountains drip with sunset,

Alter? When the hills do. Falter? When the sun Question if his glory Be the perfect one.

Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature’s west!

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

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! 37

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?

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.

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.

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.

Until they lock it in the grave, ’T is bliss I cannot weigh, For though they lock thee in the grave, Myself can hold the key. Think of it, lover! I and thee Permitted face to face to be; After a life, a death we’ll say, — For death was that, and this is thee.

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

“Morning” means “Milking” to the Farmer, Dawn to the Apennines — Dice to the Maid. “Morning” means just Chance to the Lover — Just Revelation to the Beloved. Epicures date a breakfast by it! Heroes a battle, The Miller a flood, Faint-going eyes their lapse From sighing, Faith, the Experiment of our Lord!

I see thee better in the dark, I do not need a light. The love of thee a prism be Excelling violet. I see thee better for the years That hunch themselves between, The miner’s lamp sufficient be To nullify the mine. And in the grave I see thee best — Its little panels be A-glow, all ruddy with the light I held so high for thee! What need of day to those whose dark Hath so surpassing sun, It seem it be continually At the meridian?

The Bible is an antique volume Written by faded men, At the suggestion of Holy Spectres —