I started Early - Took my Dog
I started Early - Took my Dog -
And visited the Sea -
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me -
And Frigates - in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands -
Presuming Me to be a Mouse -
Aground - upon the Sands -
But no Man moved Me - till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe -
And past my Apron - and my Belt
And past my Bodice - too -
And made as He would eat me up -
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve -
And then - I started - too -
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Don't put up my Thread and Needle
617
Don't put up my Thread and Needle—
I'll begin to Sew
When the Birds begin to whistle—
Better Stitches—so—
These were bent—my sight got crooked—
When my mind—is plain
I'll do seams—a Queen's endeavor
Would not blush to own—
Hems—too fine for Lady's tracing
To the sightless Knot—
Tucks—of dainty interspersion—
Like a dotted Dot—
Leave my Needle in the furrow—
Where I put it down—
I can make the zigzag stitches
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Tint I cannot take—is best
627
The Tint I cannot take—is best—
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar—
A Guinea at a sight—
The fine—impalpable Array—
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra's Company—
Repeated—in the sky—
The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite—to tell—
The eager look—on Landscapes—
As if they just repressed
Some Secret—that was pushing
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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It always felt to me—a wrong
597
It always felt to me—a wrong
To that Old Moses—done—
To let him see—the Canaan—
Without the entering—
And tho' in soberer moments—
No Moses there can be
I'm satisfied—the Romance
In point of injury—
Surpasses sharper stated—
Of Stephen—or of Paul—
For these—were only put to death—
While God's adroiter will
On Moses—seemed to fasten
With tantalizing Play
As Boy—should deal with lesser Boy—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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One Blessing had I than the rest
756
One Blessing had I than the rest
So larger to my Eyes
That I stopped gauging—satisfied—
For this enchanted size—
It was the limit of my Dream—
The focus of my Prayer—
A perfect—paralyzing Bliss—
Contented as Despair—
I knew no more of Want—or Cold—
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul—
Supremest Earthly Sum—
The Heaven below the Heaven above—
Obscured with ruddier Blue—
Life's Latitudes leant over—full—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Have any like Myself
736
Have any like Myself
Investigating March,
New Houses on the Hill descried—
And possibly a Church—
That were not, We are sure—
As lately as the Snow—
And are Today—if We exist—
Though how may this be so?
Have any like Myself
Conjectured Who may be
The Occupants of the Adobes—
So easy to the Sky—
'Twould seem that God should be
The nearest Neighbor to—
And Heaven—a convenient Grace
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Wind didn't come from the Orchard—today
316
The Wind didn't come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He's a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—
If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The first Day's Night had come
410
The first Day's Night had come—
And grateful that a thing
So terrible—had been endured—
I told my Soul to sing—
She said her Strings were snapt—
Her Bow—to Atoms blown—
And so to mend her—gave me work
Until another Morn—
And then—a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face—
Until it blocked my eyes—
My Brain—begun to laugh—
I mumbled—like a fool—
And tho' 'tis Years ago—that Day—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Angle of a Landscape
375
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane's Forefinger—
But that's—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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I'll clutch—and clutch
427
I'll clutch—and clutch—
Next—One—Might be the golden touch—
Could take it—
Diamonds—Wait—
I'm diving—just a little late—
But stars—go slow—for night—
I'll string you—in fine Necklace—
Tiaras—make—of some—
Wear you on Hem—
Loop up a Countess—with you—
Make—a Diadem—and mend my old One—
Count—Hoard—then lose—
And doubt that you are mine—
To have the joy of feeling it—again—
I'll show you at the Court—
Bear you—for Ornament
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