Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition

So clear of Victory

As he defeated—dying—

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonized and clear!

There’s a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons—

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes—

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—

We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the Meanings, are—

None may teach it—Any—

‘Tis the Seal Despair—

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the Air—

When it comes, the Landscape listens—

Shadows—hold their breath—

When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance

On the look of Death—

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading—treading—till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through—

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum—
Kept beating—beating—till I thought
My mind was going numb—

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space—began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here—

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down—
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing—then—

A Bird came down the Walk—

He did not know I saw—

He bit an angle-worm in halves

And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew

From a convenient Grass,

And then hopped sidewise to the Wall

To let a Beetle pass—

He glanced with rapid eyes

That hurried all around—

They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—

He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger, Cautious,

I offered him a Crumb,

And he unrolled his feathers

And rowed him softer home—

Than Oars divide the Ocean,

Too silver for a seam—

Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,

Leap, plashless as they swim.

Much Madness is divinest Sense—

To a discerning Eye—

Much Sense—the starkest Madness—

‘Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail—

Assent—and you are sane—

Demur—you’re straightway dangerous—

And handled with a Chain—

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

Be large enough for Me—

I reckon—when I count it all—

First—Poets—Then the Sun—

Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—

And then—the List is done—

But, looking back—the First so seems

To Comprehend the Whole—

The Others look a needless Show—

So I write—Poets—All—

Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—

They can afford a Sun

The East—would deem extravagant—

And if the Further Heaven—

Be Beautiful as they prepare

For Those who worship Them—

It is too difficult a Grace—

To justify the Dream—

The Way I read a Letter’s—this—

‘Tis first—I lock the Door—

And push it with my fingers—next—

For transport it be sure—

And then I go the furthest off

To counteract a knock—

Then draw my little Letter forth

And slowly pick the lock—

Then—glancing narrow, at the Wall—

And narrow at the floor

For firm Conviction of a Mouse

Not exorcised before—

Peruse how infinite I am

To no one that You—know—

And sigh for lack of Heaven—but not

The Heaven God bestow—

A Thought went up my mind today—

That I have had before—

But did not finish—some way back—

I could not fix the Year—

Nor where it went—nor why it came

The second time to me—

Nor definitely, what it was—

Have I the Art to say—

But somewhere—in my Soul—I know—

I’ve met the Thing before—

It just reminded me—’twas all—

And came my way no more—

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 strove

At Recess—in the Ring—

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—

We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—

The Dews drew quivering and chill—

For only Gossamer, my Gown—

My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground—

The Roof was scarcely visible—

The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity—

Not that We did, shall be the test

When Act and Will are done

But what Our Lord infers We would

Had We diviner been—

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—

1263

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry—
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll—
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul

1540

1732

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.