I met a King this afternoon!
166
I met a King this afternoon!
He had not on a Crown indeed,
A little Palmleaf Hat was all,
And he was barefoot, I'm afraid!
But sure I am he Ermine wore
Beneath his faded Jacket's blue—
And sure I am, the crest he bore
Within that Jacket's pocket too!
For 'twas too stately for an Earl—
A Marquis would not go so grand!
'Twas possibly a Czar petite—
A Pope, or something of that kind!
If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein—
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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A precious—mouldering pleasure
371
A precious—mouldering pleasure—'tis—
To meet an Antique Book—
In just the Dress his Century wore—
A privilege—I think—
His venerable Hand to take—
And warming in our own—
A passage back—or two—to make—
To Times when he—was young—
His quaint opinions—to inspect—
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind—
The Literature of Man—
What interested Scholars—most—
What Competitions ran—
When Plato—was a Certainty—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Tongue—to tell Him I am true!
400
A Tongue—to tell Him I am true!
Its fee—to be of Gold—
Had Nature—in Her monstrous House
A single Ragged Child—
To earn a Mine—would run
That Interdicted Way,
And tell Him—Charge thee speak it plain—
That so far—Truth is True?
And answer What I do—
Beginning with the Day
That Night—begun—
Nay—Midnight—'twas—
Since Midnight—happened—say—
If once more—Pardon—Boy—
The Magnitude thou may
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
649
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way—
Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too—
But for Holiday
'Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O'er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away—
Never Bride had such Assembling—
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead—
Garland be indeed—
Fitter Feet—of Her before us—
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Color of the Grave is Green
411
The Color of the Grave is Green—
The Outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Field—
Except it own a Stone—
To help the fond—to find it—
Too infinite asleep
To stop and tell them where it is—
But just a Daisy—deep—
The Color of the Grave is white—
The outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Drifts—
In Winter—till the Sun—
Has furrowed out the Aisles—
Then—higher than the Land
The little Dwelling Houses rise
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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My first well Day—since many ill
574
My first well Day—since many ill—
I asked to go abroad,
And take the Sunshine in my hands,
And see the things in Pod—
A 'blossom just when I went in
To take my Chance with pain—
Uncertain if myself, or He,
Should prove the strongest One.
The Summer deepened, while we strove—
She put some flowers away—
And Redder cheeked Ones—in their stead—
A fond—illusive way—
To cheat Herself, it seemed she tried—
As if before a child
To fade—Tomorrow—Rainbows held
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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I got so I could take his name
293
I got so I could take his name—
Without—Tremendous gain—
That Stop-sensation—on my Soul—
And Thunder—in the Room—
I got so I could walk across
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned—how—
And all our Sinew tore—
I got so I could stir the Box—
In which his letters grew
Without that forcing, in my breath—
As Staples—driven through—
Could dimly recollect a Grace—
I think, they call it "God"—
Renowned to ease Extremity—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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I dreaded that first Robin, so
348
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
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 'twas time to see—
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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In Winter in my Room
1670
In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.
A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I'd not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Promise This—When You be Dying
648
Promise This—When You be Dying—
Some shall summon Me—
Mine belong Your latest Sighing—
Mine—to Belt Your Eye—
Not with Coins—though they be Minted
From an Emperor's Hand—
Be my lips—the only Buckle
Your low Eyes—demand—
Mine to stay—when all have wandered—
To devise once more
If the Life be too surrendered—
Life of Mine—restore—
Poured like this—My Whole Libation—
Just that You should see
Bliss of Death—Life's Bliss extol thro'
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