Poems: Three Series, Complete

by Emily Dickinson

How they will tell the shipwreck When winter shakes the door, Till the children ask, "But the forty? Did they come back no more?" Then a silence suffuses the story, And a softness the teller's eye; And the children no further question, And only the waves reply.

A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'T is but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think,

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur, — you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain.

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.

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.

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN. Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation's wall.

VI. If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

WITH A FLOWER. I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too — And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.

It lay unmentioned, as the sea Develops pearl and weed, But only to himself is known The fathoms they abide.

Come slowly, Eden! Lips unused to thee, Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee, Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums, Counts his nectars — enters, And is lost in balms!

New feet within my garden go, New fingers stir the sod; A troubadour upon the elm Betrays the solitude. New children play upon the green, New weary sleep below; And still the pensive spring returns, And still the punctual snow!

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

XV. THE BEE. Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms. His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid. His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!

this makes me think of sunnier days.

XVI. Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.

i love her idea of the grass. i smell a late summer evening and the smell of freshly cut grass.

XX. TWO WORLDS. It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary. Auto-da-fe and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

XXI. THE MOUNTAIN. 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.

XXII. A DAY. I'll tell you how the sun rose, — A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills unt...

XXIV. THE WIND. Of all the sounds despatched abroad, There's not a charge to me Like that old measure in the boughs, That phraseless melody The wind does, working like a hand Whose fingers brush the sky, Then quiver down, with tufts of tune Permitted gods and me. When winds go round and round in bands, And thrum upon the door, And birds take places overhead, To bear them orchestra, I crave him grace, of summer boughs, If such an outcast be, He never heard that fleshless chant Rise solemn in the tree, As if some caravan of sound On deserts, in the sky, Had broken rank, Then knit, and passed In seamless company.

XXVII. INDIAN SUMMER. These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake. Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf! Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

amazing poem

XXXI. There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes. Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are. None may teach it anything, ' T is the seal, despair, — An imperial affliction Sent us of the air. When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, 't is like the distance On the look of death.

IV. Safe in their alabaster chambers, Untouched by morning and untouched by noon, Sleep the meek members of the resurrection, Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

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

X. I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, — the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

XVI. REFUGE. The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell, The lightning skipped like mice; The thunder crumbled like a stuff — How good to be safe in tombs, Where nature's temper cannot reach, Nor vengeance ever comes!

XIX. To know just how he suffered would be dear; To know if any human eyes were near To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze, Until it settled firm on Paradise. To know if he was patient, part content, Was dying as he thought, or different; Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way? What was his furthest mind, of home, or God, Or what the distant say At news that he ceased human nature On such a day? And wishes, had he any? Just his sigh, accented, Had been legible to me. And was he confident until Ill fluttered out in everlasting well? And if he spoke, what name was best, What first, What one broke off with At the drowsiest? Was he afraid, or tranquil? Might he know How conscious consciousness could grow, Till love that was, and love too blest to be, Meet — and the junction be Eternity?

XXII. The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, — The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

i love this...

How well I knew the light before! I could not see it now. 'T is dying, I am doing; but I'm not afraid to know.

XXVII. THE CHARIOT. Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 't is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

one of her best. imho.

XXXI. Death is a dialogue between The spirit and the dust. "Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir, I have another trust." Death doubts it, argues from the ground. The Spirit turns away, Just laying off, for evidence, An overcoat of clay.

favorite.

XXXIV. The daisy follows soft the sun, And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet. He, waking, finds the flower near. "Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?" "Because, sir, love is sweet!" We are the flower, Thou the sun! Forgive us, if as days decline, We nearer steal to Thee, — Enamoured of the parting west, The peace, the flight, the amethyst, Night's possibility!

XXXV. EMANCIPATION. No rack can torture me, My soul's at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw, Nor rend with scymitar. Two bodies therefore be; Bind one, and one will flee. The eagle of his nest No easier divest And gain the sky, Than mayest thou, Except thyself may be Thine enemy; Captivity is consciousness, So's liberty.

VI. HOPE. 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.

VIII. TRIUMPHANT. 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!

IX. THE TEST. I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I 'm used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip — drunken. Let no pebble smile, 'T was the new liquor, — That was all! Power is only pain, Stranded, through discipline, Till weights will hang.

XI. COMPENSATION. For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy. For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years, Bitter contested farthings And coffers heaped with tears.

favorite

XII. THE MARTYRS. 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 am in love with the first stanza of this poem. it is bad ass.

XV. 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.

truer words were never spoken.

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

XVII. THE RAILWAY TRAIN. I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a quarry pare To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill And nei...

THE RETURN. Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony! To think just how the fire will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!

ffaavvoorriittee..

XXIII. A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west, Nor noticed night did soft descend Nor constellation burn, Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown. 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.

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, — The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.

Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.

Victory comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table 's spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe. Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle's golden breakfast Strangles them. God keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve!

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. It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair. I wonder how the rich may feel, — An Indiaman — an Earl? I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.

i love this imagery.

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.

L. HUNGER. 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.

interesting theme.