They put Us far apart
474
They put Us far apart—
As separate as Sea
And Her unsown Peninsula—
We signified "These see"—
They took away our Eyes—
They thwarted Us with Guns—
"I see Thee" each responded straight
Through Telegraphic Signs—
With Dungeons—They devised—
But through their thickest skill—
And their opaquest Adamant—
Our Souls saw—just as well—
They summoned Us to die—
With sweet alacrity
We stood upon our stapled feet—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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First Robin
I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I'm accustomed to him grown,--
He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only live
Till that first shout got by,
Not all pianos in the woods
Had power to mangle me.
I dared not meet the daffodils,
For fear their yellow gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own.
I wished the grass would hurry,
So when 't was time to see,
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me.
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
354
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged—a Summer Afternoon—
Repairing Everywhere—
Without Design—that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers—understood—
Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay—
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud—
Where Parties—Phantom as Herself—
To Nowhere—seemed to go
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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If anybody's friend be dead
509
If anybody's friend be dead
It's sharpest of the theme
The thinking how they walked alive—
At such and such a time—
Their costume, of a Sunday,
Some manner of the Hair—
A prank nobody knew but them
Lost, in the Sepulchre—
How warm, they were, on such a day,
You almost feel the date—
So short way off it seems—
And now—they're Centuries from that—
How pleased they were, at what you said—
You try to touch the smile
And dip your fingers in the frost—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch
414
'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch,
That nearer, every Day,
Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel
Until the Agony
Toyed coolly with the final inch
Of your delirious Hem—
And you dropt, lost,
When something broke—
And let you from a Dream—
As if a Goblin with a Gauge—
Kept measuring the Hours—
Until you felt your Second
Weigh, helpless, in his Paws—
And not a Sinew—stirred—could help,
And sense was setting numb—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Who occupies this House?
892
Who occupies this House?
A Stranger I must judge
Since No one know His Circumstance—
'Tis well the name and age
Are writ upon the Door
Or I should fear to pause
Where not so much as Honest Dog
Approach encourages.
It seems a curious Town—
Some Houses very old,
Some—newly raised this Afternoon,
Were I compelled to build
It should not be among
Inhabitants so still
But where the Birds assemble
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Birds reported from the South
743
The Birds reported from the South—
A News express to Me—
A spicy Charge, My little Posts—
But I am deaf—Today—
The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng—
I reinforced the Door—
Go blossom for the Bees—I said—
And trouble Me—no More—
The Summer Grace, for Notice strove—
Remote—Her best Array—
The Heart—to stimulate the Eye
Refused too utterly—
At length, a Mourner, like Myself,
She drew away austere—
Her frosts to ponder—then it was
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Joy to have merited the Pain
788
Joy to have merited the Pain—
To merit the Release—
Joy to have perished every step—
To Compass Paradise—
Pardon—to look upon thy face—
With these old fashioned Eyes—
Better than new—could be—for that—
Though bought in Paradise—
Because they looked on thee before—
And thou hast looked on them—
Prove Me—My Hazel Witnesses
The features are the same—
So fleet thou wert, when present—
So infinite—when gone—
An Orient's Apparition—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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You'll know Her—by Her Foot
634
You'll know Her—by Her Foot—
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers—where the Toes should be—
Would more affront the Sand—
Than this Quaint Creature's Boot—
Adjusted by a Stern—
Without a Button—I could vouch—
Unto a Velvet Limb—
You'll know Her—by Her Vest—
Tight fitting—Orange—Brown—
Inside a Jacket duller—
She wore when she was born—
Her Cap is small—and snug—
Constructed for the Winds—
She'd pass for Barehead—short way off—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Whose are the little beds, I asked
142
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled—
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again—
Whose are the beds—the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
'Tis Daisy, in the shortest—
A little further on—
Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—
Little Leontoden.
'Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—
Anemone, and Bell—
Bartsia, in the blanket red—
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