Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him
Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him--
Tell him the page I didn't write;
Tell him I only said the syntax,
And left the verb and the pronoun out.
Tell him just how the fingers hurried
Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow-
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,
So you could see what moved them so.
'Tell him it wasn't a practised writer,
You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;
You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,
As if it held but the might of a child;
You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
Tell him--No, you may quibble there,
For it would split his heart to know it,
And then you and I were silenter.
'Tell him night finished before we finished
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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I should have been too glad, I see
313
I should have been too glad, I see—
Too lifted—for the scant degree
Of Life's penurious Round—
My little Circuit would have shamed
This new Circumference—have blamed—
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved—I see—
Too rescued—Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect—yesterday—
That Scalding One—Sabachthani—
Recited fluent—here—
Earth would have been too much—I see—
And Heaven—not enough for me—
I should have had the Joy
Without the Fear—to justify—
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I learned—at least—what Home could be
944
I learned—at least—what Home could be—
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant—
How awkward at the Hymn
Round our new Fireside—but for this—
This pattern—of the Way—
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea—
What Mornings in our Garden—guessed—
What Bees—for us—to hum—
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme—
And Task for Both—
When Play be done—
Your Problem—of the Brain—
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There came a Day at Summer's full
322
There came a Day at Summer's full,
Entirely for me—
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections—be—
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new—
The time was scarce profaned, by speech—
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe—of our Lord—
Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this—time—
Lest we too awkward show
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Better—than Music! For I—who heard it
503
Better—than Music! For I—who heard it—
I was used—to the Birds—before—
This—was different—'Twas Translation—
Of all tunes I knew—and more—
'Twasn't contained—like other stanza—
No one could play it—the second time—
But the Composer—perfect Mozart—
Perish with him—that Keyless Rhyme!
So—Children—told how Brooks in Eden—
Bubbled a better—Melody—
Quaintly infer—Eve's great surrender—
Urging the feet—that would—not—fly—
Children—matured—are wiser—mostly—
Eden—a legend—dimly told—
Eve—and the Anguish—Grandame's story—
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I'm saying every day
373
I'm saying every day
"If I should be a Queen, tomorrow"—
I'd do this way—
And so I deck, a little,
If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious—
With "This was she—
Begged in the Market place—
Yesterday."
Court is a stately place—
I've heard men say—
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup—
That not too plain—
Rank—overtake me—
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I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl
443
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life's little duties do—precisely—
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
I put new Blossoms in the Glass—
And throw the old—away—
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there—I weigh
The time 'twill be till six o'clock
I have so much to do—
And yet—Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my tickling—through—
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman—When the Errand's done
We came to Flesh—upon—
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—
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Your Riches—taught me—Poverty
299
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty.
Myself—a Millionaire
In little Wealths, as Girls could boast
Till broad as Buenos Ayre—
You drifted your Dominions—
A Different Peru—
And I esteemed All Poverty
For Life's Estate with you—
Of Mines, I little know—myself—
But just the names, of Gems—
The Colors of the Commonest—
And scarce of Diadems—
So much, that did I meet the Queen—
Her Glory I should know—
But this, must be a different Wealth—
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What would I give to see his face?
247
What would I give to see his face?
I'd give—I'd give my life—of course—
But that is not enough!
Stop just a minute—let me think!
I'd give my biggest Bobolink!
That makes two—Him—and Life!
You know who "June" is—
I'd give her—
Roses a day from Zanzibar—
And Lily tubes—like Wells—
Bees—by the furlong—
Straits of Blue
Navies of Butterflies—sailed thro'—
And dappled Cowslip Dells—
Then I have "shares" in Primrose "Banks"—
Daffodil Dowries—spicy "Stocks"—
Dominions—broad as Dew—
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To know just how He suffered—would be dear
622
To know just how He suffered—would be dear—
To know if any Human eyes were near
To whom He could entrust His wavering gaze—
Until it settle broad—on Paradise—
To know if He was patient—part content—
Was Dying as He thought—or different—
Was it a pleasant Day to die—
And did the Sunshine face his way—
What was His furthest mind—Of Home—or God—
Or what the Distant say—
At news that He ceased Human Nature
Such a Day—
And Wishes—Had He Any—
Just His Sigh—Accented—
Had been legible—to Me—
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