Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee,

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

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

Angels in the early morning May be seen the dews among, Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:

As children bid the guest good-night, And then reluctant turn, My flowers raise their pretty lips,

Belshazzar had a letter, -- He never had but one; Belshazzar's correspondent

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain, -- More fair, because impossible

Glee! The great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink,

I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it;

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest

I know a place where summer strives With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies back,

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine

If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching,

If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on,

If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn,

Is Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness.

New feet within my garden go, New fingers stir the sod; A troubadour upon the elm

On this long storm the rainbow rose, On this late morn the sun; The clouds, like listless elephants,

One dignity delays for all, One mitred afternoon. None can avoid this purple,

Our share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill,

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? But I could never sell. If you would like to borrow

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass

Safe in their alabaster chambers, Untouched by morning and untouched by noon, Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,

So bashful when I spied her, So pretty, so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets,

The bee is not afraid of me, I know the butterfly; The pretty people in the woods

The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve,

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes

The one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be.

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

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom,

Two swimmers wrestled on the spar Until the morning sun, When one turned smiling to the land.

Upon the gallows hung a wretch, Too sullied for the hell To which the law entitled him.

Whether my bark went down at sea, Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted

Who robbed the woods, The trusting woods? The unsuspecting trees

Your riches taught me poverty. Myself a millionnaire In little wealths, -- as girls could boast, --

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor,

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

A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld, -- The lady dare not lift her veil

A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's; Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing

Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break

I'll tell you how the sun rose, -- A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst,

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

A dew sufficed itself And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny!

A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period.

Fate slew him, but he did not drop; She felled -- he did not fall -- Impaled him on her fiercest stakes --

A modest lot, a fame petite, A brief campaign of sting and sweet Is plenty! Is enough!

A murmur in the trees to note, Not loud enough for wind; A star not far enough to seek,

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day

A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone

I meant to have but modest needs, Such as content, and heaven; Within my income these could lie,

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two,

Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister,

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature

A sickness of this world it most occasions When best men die; A wishfulness their far condition

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, Until we meet a snake; 'T is then we sigh for houses,

Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped freight Of a delivered syllable,

An awful tempest mashed the air, The clouds were gaunt and few; A black, as of a spectre's cloak,

A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish, -- some way back,

A throe upon the features A hurry in the breath, An ecstasy of parting

The wind begun to rock the grass With threatening tunes and low, -- He flung a menace at the earth,

A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, --

A train went through a burial gate, A bird broke forth and sang, And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat

What mystery pervades a well! The water lives so far, Like neighbor from another world

A word is dead When it is said, Some say.

Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father's lodge

The murmuring of bees has ceased; But murmuring of some Posterior, prophetic,

Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way!

When I was small, a woman died. To-day her only boy Went up from the Potomac,

Our lives are Swiss, -- So still, so cool, Till, some odd afternoon,

I'm wife; I've finished that, That other state; I'm Czar, I'm woman now:

Come slowly, Eden! Lips unused to thee, Bashful, sip thy jasmines,

An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn;

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple,

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, -- Too imperceptible, at last,

As far from pity as complaint, As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan,

Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning,

At half-past three a single bird Unto a silent sky Propounded but a single term

The night was wide, and furnished scant With but a single star, That often as a cloud it met

At least to pray is left, is left. O Jesus! in the air I know not which thy chamber is, --

Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness

Of bronze and blaze The north, to-night! So adequate its forms,

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper,

The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut

Before the ice is in the pools, Before the skaters go, Or any cheek at nightfall

You left me, sweet, two legacies, -- A legacy of love A Heavenly Father would content,

Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast; Grant, God, he charge the bravest

I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement

Just lost when I was saved! Just felt the world go by! Just girt me for the onset with eternity,

All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of 'Currer Bell,'

Softened by Time's consummate plush, How sleek the woe appears That threatened childhood's citadel

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away,

The spider as an artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit

Drab habitation of whom? Tabernacle or tomb, Or dome of worm,

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,

A door just opened on a street -- I, lost, was passing by -- An instant's width of warmth disclosed,

Could I but ride indefinite, As doth the meadow-bee, And visit only where I liked,

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces,

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door; Or has it feathers like a bird,

The day came slow, till five o'clock, Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light

There's something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast,

Apparently with no surprise To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play

Death is a dialogue between The spirit and the dust. "Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it,

A deed knocks first at thought, And then it knocks at will. That is the manufacturing spot,

Who never wanted, -- maddest joy Remains to him unknown: The banquet of abstemiousness

It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones

Let me not mar that perfect dream By an auroral stain, But so adjust my daily night

Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking man

The sun kept setting, setting still; No hue of afternoon Upon the village I perceived, --

I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night,

No rack can torture me, My soul's at liberty Behind this mortal bone

That is solemn we have ended, -- Be it but a play, Or a glee among the garrets,

God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, --

Step lightly on this narrow spot! The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast

I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation,

Essential oils are wrung: The attar from the rose Is not expressed by suns alone,

On this wondrous sea, Sailing silently, Ho! pilot, ho!

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one,

Except the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so;

Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee,

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt,

Experiment to me Is every one I meet. If it contain a kernel?

Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent

Far from love the Heavenly Father Leads the chosen child; Oftener through realm of briar

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord, Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses --

Father, I bring thee not myself, -- That were the little load; I bring thee the imperial heart

Few get enough, -- enough is one; To that ethereal throng Have not each one of us the right

Ashes denote that fire was; Respect the grayest pile For the departed creature's sake

I had no cause to be awake, My best was gone to sleep, And morn a new politeness took,

Forbidden fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks; How luscious lies the pea within

Heaven is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang,

There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man.

Frequently the woods are pink, Frequently are brown; Frequently the hills undress

Are friends delight or pain? Could bounty but remain Riches were good.

God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed.

My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings

One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing

Given in marriage unto thee, Oh, thou celestial host! Bride of the Father and the Son,

Going to heaven! I don't know when, Pray do not ask me how, --

On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure

Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravos

Good night! which put the candle out? A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew

The leaves, like women, interchange Sagacious confidence; Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of

I measure every grief I meet With analytic eyes; I wonder if it weighs like mine,

He put the belt around my life, -- I heard the buckle snap, And turned away, imperial,

He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast.

Heart not so heavy as mine, Wending late home, As it passed my window

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

High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles,

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words,

Hope is a subtle glutton; He feeds upon the fair; And yet, inspected closely,

How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account

How still the bells in steeples stand, Till, swollen with the sky, They leap upon their silver feet

I had been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near,

I breathed enough to learn the trick, And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well,

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.

I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain

I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed

I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, -- as a hand

I gained it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow

I had a guinea golden; I lost it in the sand, And though the sum was simple,

I have a king who does not speak; So, wondering, thro' the hours meek I trudge the day away,--

I have not told my garden yet, Lest that should conquer me; I have not quite the strength now

I know that he exists Somewhere, in silence. He has hid his rare life

I lived on dread; to those who know The stimulus there is In danger, other impetus

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems,

I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks,

I noticed people disappeared, When but a little child, -- Supposed they visited remote,

I read my sentence steadily, Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt;

I shall know why, when time is over, And I have ceased to wonder why; Christ will explain each separate anguish

I think just how my shape will rise When I shall be forgiven, Till hair and eyes and timid head

I went to heaven, -- 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby,

I went to thank her, But she slept; Her bed a funnelled stone,

I wish I knew that woman's name, So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears,

I wonder if the sepulchre Is not a lonesome way, When men and boys, and larks and June

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat Was haughty and betrayed. What right had fields to arbitrate

I'm Nobody!    Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!

I've got an arrow here; Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere.

I've seen a dying eye Run round and round a room In search of something, as it seemed,

If anybody's friend be dead, It 's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive,

If I may have it when it's dead I will contented be; If just as soon as breath is out

If I should n't Be Alive When the robins come, Give the one in red cravat

If the foolish call them 'flowers,' Need the wiser tell? If the savans 'classify' them,

Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time,

It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one's hat, As one encountered gentlefolk

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

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down, Whose bonnets touch the firmament,

I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I 'm accustomed to him grown, --

A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves

I CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.

From us she wandered now a year, Her tarrying unknown; If wilderness prevent her feet,

Is bliss, then, such abyss I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe?

It can't be summer, -- that got through; It 's early yet for spring; There 's that long town of white to cross

It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bells

It was too late for man, But early yet for God; Creation impotent to help,

It'S All I Have To Bring To-Day, This, and my heart beside, This, and my heart, and all the fields,

If tolling bell I ask the cause. 'A soul has gone to God,' I'm answered in a lonesome tone;

Lay this laurel on the one Too intrinsic for renown. Laurel! veil your deathless tree, --

Let down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat,

It's such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh; And yet by trades the size of these

Life, and Death, and Giants Such as these, are still. Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill,

Like mighty footlights burned the red At bases of the trees, -- The far theatricals of day

I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey,

Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun

To lose one's faith surpasses The loss of an estate, Because estates can be

I had a daily bliss I half indifferent viewed, Till sudden I perceived it stir, --

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the row of stars

I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs; The name they dropped upon my face With water, in the country church,

My worthiness is all my doubt, His merit all my fear, Contrasting which, my qualities

Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and

Split the lark and you'll find the music, Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled, Scantily dealt to the summer morning,

We like March, his shoes are purple, He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler,

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April,

Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear

Musicians wrestle everywhere: All day, among the crowded air, I hear the silver strife;

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature

Mine by the right of the white election! Mine by the royal seal! Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison

Morning is the place for dew, Corn is made at noon, After dinner light for flowers,

Morns like these we parted; Noons like these she rose, Fluttering first, then firmer,

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, --

My country need not change her gown, Her triple suit as sweet As when't was cut at Lexington,

Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking,

Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day,

Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, --

The springtime's pallid landscape Will glow like bright bouquet, Though drifted deep in parian

Not any higher stands the grave For heroes than for men; Not any nearer for the child

Not with a club the heart is broken, Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see it.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow

I live with him, I see his face; I go no more away For visitor, or sundown;

Arcturus is his other name, -- I'd rather call him star! It's so unkind of science

On the bleakness of my lot Bloom I strove to raise. Late, my acre of a rock

Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula

God permits industrious angels Afternoons to play. I met one, -- forgot my school-mates,

Pompless no life can pass away; The lowliest career To the same pageant wends its way

Poor little heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

Portraits are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine

Did the harebell loose her girdle To the lover bee, Would the bee the harebell hallow

You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan

Prayer is the little implement Through which men reach Where presence is denied them.

Wait till the majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered footman

Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning's flagons up, And say how many dew;

That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved

A something in a summer's day, As sIow her flambeaux burn away, Which solemnizes me.

There is a flower that bees prefer, And butterflies desire; To gain the purple democrat

'T is little I could care for pearls Who own the ample sea; Or brooches, when the Emperor

I like a look of agony, Because I know it's true; Men do not sham convulsion,

The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell,

Remembrance has a rear and front, -- 'T is something like a house; It has a garret also

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, -- A presence of departed acts

There came a day at summer's full Entirely for me; I thought that such were for the saints,

Taken from men this morning, Carried by men to-day, Met by the gods with banners

At last to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side, The rest of life to see!

'T was a long parting, but the time For interview had come; Before the judgment-seat of God,

The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan; Confided are his projects pink

'T was just this time last year I died. I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms, --

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face

Soul, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost, indeed,

'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I

One blessing had I, than the rest So larger to my eyes That I stopped gauging, satisfied,

From all the jails the boys and girls Ecstatically leap, -- Beloved, only afternoon

Of tribulation these are they Denoted by the white; The spangled gowns, a lesser rank

The skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills -- The hills just tell the orchards --

Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, -- Past the houses, past the headlands,

She sweeps with many-colored brooms, And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west,

She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return

It tossed and tossed, -- A little brig I knew, -- O'ertook by blast,

Before I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes,

How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And does n't care about careers,

Sleep is supposed to be, By souls of sanity, The shutting of the eye.

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By stretch of limb or stir of lid, --

So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown

Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, -- Tenderly tucking them in from frost

Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill

It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still. Eclipse was all we could see at the window,

[Published in "A Masque of Poets" at the request of "H.H.," the author's fellow-townswoman and friend.] Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed.

A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves,

Some rainbow coming from the fair! Some vision of the world Cashmere I confidently see!

The gentian weaves her fringes, The maple's loom is red. My departing blossoms

A sloop of amber slips away Upon an ether sea, And wrecks in peace a purple tar,

Where ships of purple gently toss On seas of daffodil, Fantastic sailors mingle,

Superfluous were the sun When excellence is dead; He were superfluous every day,

Superiority to fate Is difficult to learn. 'T is not conferred by any,

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions

Doubt me, my dim companion! Why, God would be content With but a fraction of the love

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await

Sweet hours have perished here; This is a mighty room; Within its precincts hopes have played, --

'T WAS later when the summer went Than when the cricket came, And yet we knew that gentle clock

Talk with prudence to a beggar Of 'Potosi' and the mines! Reverently to the hungry

One day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day, Celebrated part at table,

That such have died enables us The tranquiller to die; That such have lived, certificate

You've seen balloons set, haven't you? So stately they ascend It is as swans discarded you

The bat is dun with wrinkled wings Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips,

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes,

No brigadier throughout the year So civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too,

Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness,

The bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that? It is not fit for table,

Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced,

The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries

The butterfiy's assumption-gown, In chrysoprase apartments hung, This afternoon put on.

From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door Emerged -- a summer afternoon --

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

How the old mountains drip with sunset, And the brake of dun! How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel

I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life

The daisy follows soft the sun, And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet.

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible

I took my power in my hand. And went against the world; 'T was not so much as David had,

The dying need but little, dear, -- A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face

The farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be

After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, -- Agony, that enacted there,

That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious

Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature

The grass so little has to do, -- A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood,

The grave my little cottage is, Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly,

I think the hemlock likes to stand Upon a marge of snow; It suits his own austerity,

A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald,

While I was fearing it, it came, But came with less of fear, Because that fearing it so long

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being's road,

Blazing in gold and quenching in purple, Leaping like leopards to the sky, Then at the feet of the old horizon

The last night that she lived, It was a common night, Except the dying; this to us

"GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him -- Tell him the page I did n't write; Tell him I only said the syntax,

I know some lonely houses off the road A robber 'd like the look of, -- Wooden barred,

I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy;

I felt a clearing in my mind As if my brain had split; I tried to match it, seam by seam,

The rose did caper on her cheek, Her bodice rose and fell, Her pretty speech, like drunken men,

Through the straight pass of suffering The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation,

He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on;

She laid her docile crescent down, And this mechanic stone Still states, to dates that have forgot,

The moon is distant from the sea, And yet with amber hands She leads him, docile as a boy,

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face

The mountain sat upon the plain In his eternal chair, His observation omnifold,

The mushroom is the elf of plants, At evening it is not; At morning in a truffled hut

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee

The only ghost I ever saw Was dressed in mechlin, -- so; He wore no sandal on his foot,

To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine.

One of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal,

My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply.

The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the face A transport may reward us,

He preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow, -- The broad are too broad to define; And of "truth" until it proclaimed him a liar, --

I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks;

The rat is the concisest tenant. He pays no rent, -- Repudiates the obligation,

Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy

The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports

This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes,

An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing

Some things that fly there be, -- Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy.

The body grows outside, -- The more convenient way, -- That if the spirit like to hide,

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me

"Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?" Some shook their heads, and others smiled,

A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him, -- did you not,

It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool

The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait,

The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, -- Or the most agonizing spy

It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit

A spider sewed at night Without a light Upon an arc of white.

'T is whiter than an Indian pipe, 'T is dimmer than a lace; No stature has it, like a fog,

The stimulus, beyond the grave His countenance to see, Supports me like imperial drams

There came a wind like a bugle; It quivered through the grass, And a green chill upon the heat

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell,

I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, -- I 'm used to that.

The thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, -- As laces just reveal the surge,

She slept beneath a tree Remembered but by me. I touched her cradle mute;

A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field

The way I read a letter's this: 'T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next,

Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire's common tint;

She rose to his requirement, dropped The playthings of her life To take the honorable work

Of all the sounds despatched abroad, There's not a charge to me Like that old measure in the boughs,

It's like the light, -- A fashionless delight It's like the bee, --

The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, "Come in," I boldly answered; entered then

His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree, --

Their height in heaven comforts not, Their glory nought to me; 'T was best imperfect, as it was;

There is a shame of nobleness Confronting sudden pelf, -- A finer shame of ecstasy

There's been a death in the opposite house As lately as to-day. I know it by the numb look

They say that 'time assuages,' -- Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens,

They won't frown always, -- some sweet day When I forget to tease, They'll recollect how cold I looked,

We thirst at first, -- 't is Nature's act; And later, when we die, A little water supplicate

This merit hath the worst, -- It cannot be again. When Fate hath taunted last

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think

This world is not conclusion; A sequel stands beyond, Invisible, as music,

Three weeks passed since I had seen her, -- Some disease had vexed; 'T was with text and village singing

I should not dare to leave my friend, Because -- because if he should die While I was gone, and I -- too late --

Mine enemy is growing old, -- I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs;

To hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to find That such was not the posture

To help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given, Which if they do not fit for earth

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,

To learn the transport by the pain, As blind men learn the sun; To die of thirst, suspecting

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. 'T is true the drought is destitute,

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -- One clover, and a bee, And revery.

Dear March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before.

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy

To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember

Delayed till she had ceased to know, Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay.

I should have been too glad, I see, Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round;

As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes,

Triumph may be of several kinds. There 's triumph in the room When that old imperator, Death,

Who never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons

How many times these low feet staggered, Only the soldered mouth can tell; Try! can you stir the awful rivet?

Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to be Upon a new peninsula, --

Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the firmament

It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons,

Undue significance a starving man attaches To food Far off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,

'T was such a little, little boat That toddled down the bay! 'T was such a gallant, gallant sea

Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence,

'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou No station in the day? 'T was not thy wont to hinder so, --

She died, -- this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture. For the one ship that struts the shore Many's the gallant, overwhelmed creature

Victory comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost

Great streets of silence led away To neighborhoods of pause; Here was no notice, no dissent,

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house;

Water is taught by thirst; Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe;

We cover thee, sweet face. Not that we tire of thee, But that thyself fatigue of us;

We learn in the retreating How vast an one Was recently among us.

We never know we go, -- when we are going We jest and shut the door; Fate following behind us bolts it,

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste,

A solemn thing it was, I said, A woman white to be, And wear, if God should count me fit,

What if I say I shall not wait? What if I burst the fleshly gate And pass, escaped, to thee?

What inn is this Where for the night Peculiar traveller comes?

What soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are! One would as soon assault a plush

When I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone

Where every bird is bold to go, And bees abashless play, The foreigner before he knocks

Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God's residence is next to mine,

My friend must be a bird, Because it flies! Mortal my friend must be,

The murmur of a bee A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why,

Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too --

When roses cease to bloom, dear, And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight

South winds jostle them, Bumblebees come, Hover, hesitate,

If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not; And if forgetting, recollecting,