Collected Poems

by Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, — The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me!

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay; I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look. The hands still hug the tardy glass; The lips I would have cooled, alas! Are so superfluous cold, I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould. Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak. And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake, — If, haply, any say to me, “Unto the little, unto me,” When I at last awake.

I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, — as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark; — How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

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.

Who never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind. Who never climbed the weary league — Can such a foot explore The purple territories On Pizarro’s shore? How many legions overcome? The emperor will say. How many colors taken On Revolution Day? How many bullets bearest? The royal scar hast thou? Angels, write “Promoted” On this soldier’s brow!

I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I’m used to that.

Through the straight pass of suffering The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God. A stately, shriven company; Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor Upon a planet’s bound. Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air.

I left the place with all my might, — My prayer away I threw; The quiet ages picked it up, And Judgment twinkled, too,

The thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, — As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, — Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send. Secure against its own, No treason it can fear; Itself its sovereign, of itself The soul should stand in awe.

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play — Both went to see.

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,

But somewhere in my soul, I know I’ve met the thing before; It just reminded me — ’t was all — And came my way no more.

Is Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable. Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I’m not a party to.

Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark,

The angels, happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God. There, — sandals for the barefoot; There, — gathered from the gales, Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering sails.

It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight.

How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical?

God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, — My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the feat That made the pellet mine, — Too happy in my sparrow chance For ampler coveting.

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.

I took my power in my hand. And went against the world; ’T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold. I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?

All forests, stintless stars, As much of noon as I could take Between my finite eyes.

Mine enemy is growing old, — I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, — Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; ’T is starving makes it fat.

Remorse is memory awake,

I had been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine. ’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. I did not know the ample bread, ’T was so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature’s dining-room. The plenty hurt me, ’t was so new, — Myself felt ill and odd, As berry of a mountain bush Transplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I found That hunger was a way Of persons outside windows, The entering takes away.

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.

Prayer is the little implement Through which men reach Where presence is denied them. They fling their speech By means of it in God’s ear; If then He hear, This sums the apparatus Comprised in prayer.

Would not the fun Look too expensive? Would not the jest Have crawled too far?

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. 90 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or me They may take the trifle Termed mortality! To invest existence with a stately air, Needs but to remember That the acorn there Is the egg of forests For the upper air!

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!

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.

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.

God’s residence is next to mine, His furniture is love.

A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone Would feel as thoroughly at ease As were they old acquaintances, — First time together thrown.

had a star in heaven; One Pleiad was its name, And when I was not heeding It wandered from the same. And though the skies are crowded, And all the night ashine, I do not care about it, Since none of them are mine.

If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not; And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot! And if to miss were merry, And if to mourn were gay, How very blithe the fingers That gathered these to-day!