Complete Poems by Emily Dickinson

by Emily Dickinson

  It's easy as a sign, —

  The intuition of the news

  In just a country town.

  XLIX.

  We never know we go, — when we are going

  We jest and shut the door;

  Fate following behind us bolts it,

  And we accost no more.

  L.

  THE SOUL'S STORM.

  It struck me every day

  The lightning was as new

  As if the cloud that instant slit

  And let the fire through.

  It burned me in the night,

  It blistered in my dream;

  It sickened fresh upon my sight

  With every morning's beam.

  I thought that storm was brief, —

  The maddest, quickest by;

  But Nature lost the date of this,

  And left it in the sky.

  LI.

  Water is taught by thirst;

  Land, by the oceans passed;

  Transport, by throe;

  Peace, by its battles told;

  Love, by memorial mould;

  Birds, by the snow.

  LII.

  THIRST.

  We thirst at first, — 't is Nature's act;

  And later, when we die,

  A little water supplicate

  Of fingers going by.

  It intimates the finer want,

  Whose adequate supply

  Is that great water in the west

  Termed immortality.

  LIII.

  A clock stopped — not the mantel's;

  Geneva's farthest skill

  Can't put the puppet bowing

  That just now dangled still.

  An awe came on the trinket!

  The figures hunched with pain,

  Then quivered out of decimals

  Into degreeless noon.

  It will not stir for doctors,

  This pendulum of snow;

  The shopman importunes it,

  While cool, concernless No

  Nods from the gilded pointers,

  Nods from the seconds slim,

  Decades of arrogance between

  The dial life and him.

  LIV.

  CHARLOTTE BRONTË'S GRAVE.

  All overgrown by cunning moss,

  All interspersed with weed,

  The little cage of 'Currer Bell,'

  In quiet Haworth laid.

  This bird, observing others,

  When frosts too sharp became,

  Retire to other latitudes,

  Quietly did the same,

  But differed in returning;

  Since Yorkshire hills are green,

  Yet not in all the nests I meet

  Can nightingale be seen.

  Gathered from many wanderings,

  Gethsemane can tell

  Through what transporting anguish

  She reached the asphodel!

  Soft fall the sounds of Eden

  Upon her puzzled ear;

  Oh, what an afternoon for heaven,

  When 'Brontë' entered there!

  LV.

  A toad can die of light!

  Death is the common right

  Of toads and men, —

  Of earl and midge

  The privilege.

  Why swagger then?

  The gnat's supremacy

  Is large as thine.

  LVI.

  Far from love the Heavenly Father

  Leads the chosen child;

  Oftener through realm of briar

  Than the meadow mild,

  Oftener by the claw of dragon

  Than the hand of friend,

  Guides the little one predestined

  To the native land.

  LVII.

  SLEEPING.

  A long, long sleep, a famous sleep

  That makes no show for dawn

  By stretch of limb or stir of lid, —

  An independent one.

  Was ever idleness like this?

  Within a hut of stone

  To bask the centuries away

  Nor once look up for noon?

  LVIII.

  RETROSPECT.

  'T was just this time last year I died.

  I know I heard the corn,

  When I was carried by the farms, —

  It had the tassels on.

  I thought how yellow it would look

  When Richard went to mill;

  And then I wanted to get out,

  But something held my will.

  I thought just how red apples wedged

  The stubble's joints between;

  And carts went stooping round the fields

  To take the pumpkins in.

  I wondered which would miss me least,

  And when Thanksgiving came,

  If father'd multiply the plates

  To make an even sum.

  And if my stocking hung too high,

  Would it blur the Christmas glee,

  That not a Santa Claus could reach

  The altitude of me?

  But this sort grieved myself, and so

  I thought how it would be

  When just this time, some perfect year,

  Themselves should come to me.

  ETERNITY.

  On this wondrous sea,

  Sailing silently,

  Ho! pilot, ho!

  Knowest thou the shore

  Where no breakers roar,

  Where the storm is o'er?

  In the silent west

  Many sails at rest,

  Their anchors fast;

  Thither I pilot thee, —

  Land, ho! Eternity!

  Ashore at last!

  Index of First Lines

  A bird came down the walk:

  A charm invests a face

  A clock stopped — not the mantel's;

  A death-blow is a life-blow to some

  A deed knocks first at thought,

  A dew sufficed itself

  A door just opened on a street —

  A drop fell on the apple tree,

  A face devoid of love or grace,

  A lady red upon the hill

  A light exists in spring

  A little road not made of man,

  A long, long sleep, a famous sleep

  A modest lot, a fame petite,

  A murmur in the trees to note,

  A narrow fellow in the grass

  A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,

  A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is

  A route of evanescence

  A sepal, petal, and a thorn

  A shady friend for torrid days

  A sickness of this world it most occasions

  A sloop of amber slips away

  A solemn thing it was, I said,

  A something in a summer's day,

  A spider sewed at night

  A thought went up my mind to-day

  A throe upon the features

  A toad can die of light!

  A train went through a burial gate

  A word is dead

  A wounded deer leaps highest,

  Adrift! A little boat adrift!

  Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?

  After a hundred years

  All overgrown by cunning moss,

  Alter? When the hills do.

  Ample make this bed.

  An altered look about the hills;

  An awful tempest mashed the air,

  An everywhere of silver,

  Angels in the early morning

  Apparently with no surprise

  Arcturus is his other name, —

  Are friends delight or pain?

  As by the dead we love to sit,

  As children bid the guest good-night,

  As far from pity as complaint,

  As if some little Arctic flower,

  As imperceptibly as grief

  Ashes denote that fire was;

  At half-past three a single bi
rd

  At last to be identified!

  At least to pray is left, is left.

  Because I could not stop for Death,

  Before I got my eye put out,

  Before the ice is in the pools,

  Before you thought of spring,

  Belshazzar had a letter, —

  Bereaved of all, I went abroad,

  Besides the autumn poets sing,

  Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,

  Bless God, he went as soldiers,

  Bring me the sunset in a cup,

  Come slowly, Eden!

  Could I but ride indefinite,

  Could mortal lip divine

  Dare you see a soul at the white heat?

  Dear March, come in!

  Death is a dialogue between

  Death is like the insect

  Death sets a thing significant

  Delayed till she had ceased to know,

  Delight becomes pictorial

  Departed to the judgment,

  Did the harebell loose her girdle

  Doubt me, my dim companion!

  Drab habitation of whom?

  Drowning is not so pitiful

  Each life converges to some centre

  Each that we lose takes part of us;

  Elysium is as far as to

  Except the heaven had come so near,

  Except to heaven, she is nought;

  Experiment to me

  Faith is a fine invention

  Exultation is the going

  Far from love the Heavenly Father

  Farther in summer than the birds,

  Fate slew him, but he did not drop;

  Father, I bring thee not myself, —

  Few get enough, — enough is one;

  Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.

  For each ecstatic instant

  Forbidden fruit a flavor has

  Frequently the woods are pink,

  From all the jails the boys and girls

  From cocoon forth a butterfly

  From us she wandered now a year,

  Given in marriage unto thee,

  Glee! The great storm is over!

  God gave a loaf to every bird,

  God made a little gentian;

  God permits industrious angels

  Going to heaven!

  "Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him —

  Good night! which put the candle out?

  Great streets of silence led away

  Have you got a brook in your little heart,

  He ate and drank the precious words,

  He fumbles at your spirit

  He preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow, —

  He put the belt around my life, —

  He touched me, so I live to know

  Heart not so heavy as mine,

  Heart, we will forget him!

  Heaven is what I cannot reach!

  Her final summer was it,

  High from the earth I heard a bird;

  His bill an auger is,

  Hope is a subtle glutton;

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  How dare the robins sing,

  How happy is the little stone

  How many times these low feet staggered,

  How still the bells in steeples stand,

  How the old mountains drip with sunset,

  I asked no other thing,

  I breathed enough to learn the trick,

  I can wade grief,

  I cannot live with you,

  I died for beauty, but was scarce

  I dreaded that first robin so,

  I envy seas whereon he rides,

  I felt a clearing in my mind

  I felt a funeral in my brain,

  I found the phrase to every thought

  I gained it so,

  I gave myself to him,

  I had a daily bliss

  I had a guinea golden;

  I had been hungry all the years;

  I had no cause to be awake,

  I had no time to hate, because

  I have a king who does not speak;

  I have no life but this,

  I have not told my garden yet,

  I heard a fly buzz when I died;

  I held a jewel in my fingers

  I hide myself within my flower,

  I know a place where summer strives

  I know some lonely houses off the road

  I know that he exists

  I like a look of agony,

  I like to see it lap the miles,

  I live with him, I see his face;

  I lived on dread; to those who know

  I lost a world the other day.

  I many times thought peace had come,

  I meant to find her when I came;

  I meant to have but modest needs,

  I measure every grief I meet

  I never hear the word "escape"

  I never lost as much but twice,

  I never saw a moor,

  I noticed people disappeared,

  I read my sentence steadily,

  I reason, earth is short,

  I shall know why, when time is over,

  I should have been too glad, I see,

  I should not dare to leave my friend,

  I sing to use the waiting,

  I started early, took my dog,

  I stepped from plank to plank

  I taste a liquor never brewed,

  I think just how my shape will rise

  I think the hemlock likes to stand

  I took my power in my hand.

  I went to heaven, —

  I went to thank her,

  I wish I knew that woman's name,

  I wonder if the sepulchre

  I worked for chaff, and earning wheat

  I years had been from home,

  I'll tell you how the sun rose, —

  I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs;

  I'm wife; I've finished that,

  I've got an arrow here;

  I've seen a dying eye

  If I can stop one heart from breaking,

  If I may have it when it's dead

  If I should die,

  If I shouldn't be alive

  If anybody's friend be dead,

  If recollecting were forgetting,

  If the foolish call them 'flowers,'

  If tolling bell I ask the cause.

  If you were coming in the fall,

  Immortal is an ample word

  In lands I never saw, they say,

  Is Heaven a physician?

  Is bliss, then, such abyss

  It can't be summer, — that got through;

  It dropped so low in my regard

  It is an honorable thought,

  It makes no difference abroad,

  It might be easier

  It sifts from leaden sieves,

  It sounded as if the streets were running,

  It struck me every day

  It tossed and tossed, —

  It was not death, for I stood up,

  It was too late for man,

  It's like the light, —

  It's such a little thing to weep,

  Just lost when I was saved!

  Lay this laurel on the one

  Let down the bars, O Death!

  Let me not mar that perfect dream

  Life, and Death, and Giants

  Like mighty footlights burned the red

  Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

  Look back on time with kindly eyes,

  Love is anterior to life,

  Me! Come! My dazzled face

  Mine by the right of the white election!

  Mine enemy is growing old, —

  Morning is the place for dew,

  Morns like these we parted;

  Much madness is divinest sense

  Musicians wrestle everywhere:

  My cocoon tightens, colors tease,

  My country need not change her gown,


  My friend must be a bird,

  My life closed twice before its close;

  My worthiness is all my doubt,

  Nature rarer uses yellow

  Nature, the gentlest mother,

  New feet within my garden go,

  No brigadier throughout the year

  No rack can torture me,

  Not any higher stands the grave

  Not in this world to see his face

  Not knowing when the dawn will come

  Not with a club the heart is broken,

  Of all the souls that stand create

  Of all the sounds despatched abroad,

  Of bronze and blaze

  Of tribulation these are they

  On such a night, or such a night,

  On the bleakness of my lot

  On this long storm the rainbow rose,

  On this wondrous sea,

  One blessing had I, than the rest

  One day is there of the series

  One need not be a chamber to be haunted,

  One of the ones that Midas touched,

  Our journey had advanced;

  Our lives are Swiss, —

  Our share of night to bear,

  Pain has an element of blank;

  Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?

  Pigmy seraphs gone astray,

  Pink, small, and punctual,

  Pompless no life can pass away;

  Poor little heart!

  Portraits are to daily faces

  Prayer is the little implement

  Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

  Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,

  Read, sweet, how others strove,

  Remembrance has a rear and front, —

  Remorse is memory awake,

  Safe in their alabaster chambers,

  She died, — this was the way she died;

  She laid her docile crescent down,

  She rose to his requirement, dropped

  She slept beneath a tree

  She sweeps with many-colored brooms,

  She went as quiet as the dew

  Sleep is supposed to be,

  So bashful when I spied her,

  So proud she was to die

  Softened by Time's consummate plush,

  Some keep the Sabbath going to church;

  Some rainbow coming from the fair!

  Some things that fly there be, —

  Some, too fragile for winter winds,

  Soul, wilt thou toss again?

  South winds jostle them,

  Split the lark and you'll find the music,

  Step lightly on this narrow spot!

  Success is counted sweetest

  Summer for thee grant I may be

  Superfluous were the sun

  Surgeons must be very careful

  Sweet hours have perished here;

  Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,

  Taken from men this morning,