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Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two
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XXXIV.
STORM
It sounded as if the streets were running,And then the streets stood still.Eclipse was all we could see at the window,And awe was all we could feel.By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,To see if time was there.Nature was in her beryl apron,Mixing fresher air.XXXV.
THE RAT
The rat is the concisest tenant.He pays no rent, —Repudiates the obligation,On schemes intent.Balking our witTo sound or circumvent,Hate cannot harmA foe so reticent.Neither decreeProhibits him,Lawful asEquilibrium.XXXVI
Frequently the woods are pink,Frequently are brown;Frequently the hills undressBehind my native town.Oft a head is crestedI was wont to see,And as oft a crannyWhere it used to be.And the earth, they tell me,On its axis turned, —Wonderful rotationBy but twelve performed!XXXVII.
A THUNDER-STORM
The wind begun to rock the grassWith threatening tunes and low, —He flung a menace at the earth,A menace at the sky.The leaves unhooked themselves from treesAnd started all abroad;The dust did scoop itself like handsAnd throw away the road.The wagons quickened on the streets,The thunder hurried slow;The lightning showed a yellow beak,And then a livid claw.The birds put up the bars to nests,The cattle fled to barns;There came one drop of giant rain,And then, as if the handsThat held the dams had parted hold,The waters wrecked the sky,But overlooked my father's house,Just quartering a tree.XXXVIII.
WITH FLOWERS
South winds jostle them,Bumblebees come,Hover, hesitate,Drink, and are gone.Butterflies pauseOn their passage Cashmere;I, softly plucking,Present them here!XXXIX.
SUNSET
Where ships of purple gently tossOn seas of daffodil,Fantastic sailors mingle,And then – the wharf is still.XL
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,And leaves the shreds behind;Oh, housewife in the evening west,Come back, and dust the pond!You dropped a purple ravelling in,You dropped an amber thread;And now you 've littered all the EastWith duds of emerald!And still she plies her spotted brooms,And still the aprons fly,Till brooms fade softly into stars —And then I come away.XLI
Like mighty footlights burned the redAt bases of the trees, —The far theatricals of dayExhibiting to these.'T was universe that did applaudWhile, chiefest of the crowd,Enabled by his royal dress,Myself distinguished God.XLII.
PROBLEMS
Bring me the sunset in a cup,Reckon the morning's flagons up, And say how many dew;Tell me how far the morning leaps,Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue!Write me how many notes there beIn the new robin's ecstasy Among astonished boughs;How many trips the tortoise makes,How many cups the bee partakes, — The debauchee of dews!Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,Also, who leads the docile spheres By withes of supple blue?Whose fingers string the stalactite,Who counts the wampum of the night, To see that none is due?Who built this little Alban houseAnd shut the windows down so close My spirit cannot see?Who 'll let me out some gala day,With implements to fly away, Passing pomposity?XLIII.
THE JUGGLER OF DAY
Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,Leaping like leopards to the sky,Then at the feet of the old horizonLaying her spotted face, to die;Stooping as low as the otter's window,Touching the roof and tinting the barn,Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, —And the juggler of day is gone!XLIV.
MY CRICKET
Farther in summer than the birds,Pathetic from the grass,A minor nation celebratesIts unobtrusive mass.No ordinance is seen,So gradual the grace,A pensive custom it becomes,Enlarging loneliness.Antiquest felt at noonWhen August, burning low,Calls forth this spectral canticle,Repose to typify.Remit as yet no grace,No furrow on the glow,Yet a druidic differenceEnhances nature now.XLV
As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away, —Too imperceptible, at last,To seem like perfidy.A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature, spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone, —A courteous, yet harrowing grace,As guest who would be gone.And thus, without a wing,Or service of a keel,Our summer made her light escapeInto the beautiful.XLVI
It can't be summer, – that got through;It 's early yet for spring;There 's that long town of white to crossBefore the blackbirds sing.It can't be dying, – it's too rouge, —The dead shall go in white.So sunset shuts my question downWith clasps of chrysolite.XLVII.
SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES
The gentian weaves her fringes,The maple's loom is red.My departing blossomsObviate parade.A brief, but patient illness,An hour to prepare;And one, below this morning,Is where the angels are.It was a short procession, —The bobolink was there,An aged bee addressed us,And then we knelt in prayer.We trust that she was willing, —We ask that we may be.Summer, sister, seraph,Let us go with thee!In the name of the beeAnd of the butterflyAnd of the breeze, amen!XLVIII.
FRINGED GENTIAN
God made a little gentian;It tried to be a roseAnd failed, and all the summer laughed.But just before the snowsThere came a purple creatureThat ravished all the hill;And summer hid her forehead,And mockery was still.The frosts were her condition;The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North evoked it."Creator! shall I bloom?"XLIX.
NOVEMBER
Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes, —Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!L.
THE SNOW
It sifts from leaden sieves,It powders all the wood,It fills with alabaster woolThe wrinkles of the road.It makes an even faceOf mountain and of plain, —Unbroken forehead from the eastUnto the east again.It reaches to the fence,It wraps it, rail by rail,Till it is lost in fleeces;It flings a crystal veilOn stump and stack and stem, —The summer's empty room,Acres of seams where harvests were,Recordless, but for them.It ruffles wrists of posts,As ankles of a queen, —Then stills its artisans like ghosts,Denying they have been.LI.
THE BLUE JAY
No brigadier throughout the yearSo civic as the jay.A neighbor and a warrior too,With shrill felicityPursuing winds that censure usA February day,The brother of the universeWas never blown away.The snow and he are intimate;I 've often seen them playWhen heaven looked upon us allWith such severity,I felt apology were dueTo an insulted sky,Whose pompous frown was nutrimentTo their temerity.The pillow of this daring headIs pungent evergreens;His larder – terse and militant —Unknown, refreshing things;His character a tonic,His future a dispute;Unfair an immortalityThat leaves this neighbor out.IV.
TIME AND ETERNITY
I
Let down the bars, O Death!The tired flocks come inWhose bleating ceases to repeat,Whose wandering is done.Thine is the stillest night,Thine the securest fold;Too near thou art for seeking thee,Too tender to be told.II
Going to heaven!I don't know when,Pray do not ask me how, —Indeed, I 'm too astonishedTo think of answering you!Going to heaven! —How dim it sounds!And yet it will be doneAs sure as flocks go home at nightUnto the shepherd's arm!Perhaps you 're going too!Who knows?If you should get there first,Save just a little place for meClose to the two I lost!The smallest "robe" will fit me,And just a bit of "crown;"For you know we do not mind our dressWhen we are going home.I 'm glad I don't believe it,For it would stop my breath,And I 'd like to look a little moreAt such a curious earth!I am glad they did believe itWhom I have never foundSince the mighty autumn afternoonI left them in the ground.III
At least to pray is left, is left.O Jesus! in the airI know not which thy chamber is, —I 'm knocking everywhere.Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,And maelstrom in the sea;Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,Hast thou no arm for me?IV.
EPITAPH
Step lightly on this narrow spot!The broadest land that growsIs not so ample as the breastThese emerald seams enclose.Step lofty; for this name is toldAs far as cannon dwell,Or flag subsist, or fame exportHer deathless syllable.V
Morns like these we parted;Noons like these she rose,Fluttering first, then firmer,To her fair repose.Never did she lisp it,And 't was not for me;She was mute from transport,I, from agony!Till the evening, nearing,One the shutters drew —Quick! a sharper rustling!And this linnet flew!VI
A death-blow is a life-blow to someWho, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.VII
I read my sentence steadily,Reviewed it with my eyes,To see that I made no mistakeIn its extremest clause, —The date, and manner of the shame;And then the pious formThat "God have mercy" on the soulThe jury voted him.I made my soul familiarWith her extremity,That at the last it should not beA novel agony,But she and Death, acquainted,Meet tranquilly as friends,Salute and pass without a hint —And there the matter ends.VIII
I have not told my garden yet,Lest that should conquer me;I have not quite the strength nowTo break it to the bee.I will not name it in the street,For shops would stare, that I,So shy, so very ignorant,Should have the face to die.The hillsides must not know it,Where I have rambled so,Nor tell the loving forestsThe day that I shall go,Nor lisp it at the table,Nor heedless by the wayHint that within the riddleOne will walk to-day!IX.
THE BATTLE-FIELD
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose,When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass, — No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.X
The only ghost I ever sawWas dressed in mechlin, – so;He wore no sandal on his foot,And stepped like flakes of snow.His gait was soundless, like the bird,But rapid, like the roe;His fashions quaint, mosaic,Or, haply, mistletoe.His conversation seldom,His laughter like the breezeThat dies away in dimplesAmong the pensive trees.Our interview was transient,—Of me, himself was shy;And God forbid I look behindSince that appalling day!XI
Some, too fragile for winter winds,The thoughtful grave encloses, —Tenderly tucking them in from frostBefore their feet are cold.Never the treasures in her nestThe cautious grave exposes,Building where schoolboy dare not lookAnd sportsman is not bold.This covert have all the childrenEarly aged, and often cold, —Sparrows unnoticed by the Father;Lambs for whom time had not a fold.XII
As by the dead we love to sit,Become so wondrous dear,As for the lost we grapple,Though all the rest are here, —In broken mathematicsWe estimate our prize,Vast, in its fading ratio,To our penurious eyes!XIII.
MEMORIALS
Death sets a thing significantThe eye had hurried by,Except a perished creatureEntreat us tenderlyTo ponder little workmanshipsIn crayon or in wool,With "This was last her fingers did,"Industrious untilThe thimble weighed too heavy,The stitches stopped themselves,And then 't was put among the dustUpon the closet shelves.A book I have, a friend gave,Whose pencil, here and there,Had notched the place that pleased him, —At rest his fingers are.Now, when I read, I read not,For interrupting tearsObliterate the etchingsToo costly for repairs.XIV
I went to heaven, —'T was a small town,Lit with a ruby,Lathed with down.Stiller than the fieldsAt the full dew,Beautiful as picturesNo man drew.People like the moth,Of mechlin, frames,Duties of gossamer,And eider names.Almost contentedI could be'Mong such uniqueSociety.XV
Their height in heaven comforts not,Their glory nought to me;'T was best imperfect, as it was;I 'm finite, I can't see.The house of supposition,The glimmering frontierThat skirts the acres of perhaps,To me shows insecure.The wealth I had contented me;If 't was a meaner size,Then I had counted it untilIt pleased my narrow eyesBetter than larger values,However true their show;This timid life of evidenceKeeps pleading, "I don't know."XVI
There is a shame of noblenessConfronting sudden pelf, —A finer shame of ecstasyConvicted of itself.A best disgrace a brave man feels,Acknowledged of the brave, —One more "Ye Blessed" to be told;But this involves the grave.XVII.
TRIUMPH
Triumph may be of several kinds.There 's triumph in the roomWhen that old imperator, Death,By faith is overcome.There 's triumph of the finer mindWhen truth, affronted long,Advances calm to her supreme,Her God her only throng.A triumph when temptation's bribeIs slowly handed back,One eye upon the heaven renouncedAnd one upon the rack.Severer triumph, by himselfExperienced, who can passAcquitted from that naked bar,Jehovah's countenance!XVIII
Pompless no life can pass away; The lowliest careerTo the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here.How cordial is the mystery! The hospitable pallA "this way" beckons spaciously, — A miracle for all!XIX
I noticed people disappeared,When but a little child, —Supposed they visited remote,Or settled regions wild.Now know I they both visitedAnd settled regions wild,But did because they died, – a factWithheld the little child!XX.
FOLLOWING
I had no cause to be awake,My best was gone to sleep,And morn a new politeness took,And failed to wake them up,But called the others clear,And passed their curtains by.Sweet morning, when I over-sleep,Knock, recollect, for me!I looked at sunrise once,And then I looked at them,And wishfulness in me aroseFor circumstance the same.'T was such an ample peace,It could not hold a sigh, —'T was Sabbath with the bells divorced,'T was sunset all the day.So choosing but a gownAnd taking but a prayer,The only raiment I should need,I struggled, and was there.XXI
If anybody's friend be dead,It 's sharpest of the themeThe 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:When was it, can you tell,You asked the company to tea,Acquaintance, just a few,And chatted close with this grand thingThat don't remember you?Past bows and invitations,Past interview, and vow,Past what ourselves can estimate, —That makes the quick of woe!XXII.
THE JOURNEY
Our journey had advanced;Our feet were almost comeTo that odd fork in Being's road,Eternity by term.Our pace took sudden awe,Our feet reluctant led.Before were cities, but between,The forest of the dead.Retreat was out of hope, —Behind, a sealed route,Eternity's white flag before,And God at every gate.XXIII.
A COUNTRY BURIAL
Ample make this bed.Make this bed with awe;In it wait till judgment breakExcellent and fair.Be its mattress straight,Be its pillow round;Let no sunrise' yellow noiseInterrupt this ground.XXIV.
GOING
On such a night, or such a night,Would anybody careIf such a little figureSlipped quiet from its chair,So quiet, oh, how quiet!That nobody might knowBut that the little figureRocked softer, to and fro?On such a dawn, or such a dawn,Would anybody sighThat such a little figureToo sound asleep did lieFor chanticleer to wake it, —Or stirring house below,Or giddy bird in orchard,Or early task to do?There was a little figure plumpFor every little knoll,Busy needles, and spools of thread,And trudging feet from school.Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,And visions vast and small.Strange that the feet so precious chargedShould reach so small a goal!XXV
Essential oils are wrung:The attar from the roseIs not expressed by suns alone,It is the gift of screws.The general rose decays;But this, in lady's drawer,Makes summer when the lady liesIn ceaseless rosemary.XXVI
I lived on dread; to those who knowThe stimulus there isIn danger, other impetusIs numb and vital-less.As 't were a spur upon the soul,A fear will urge it whereTo go without the spectre's aidWere challenging despair.XXVII
If I should die,And you should live,And time should gurgle on,And morn should beam,And noon should burn,As it has usual done;If birds should build as early,And bees as bustling go, —One might depart at optionFrom enterprise below!'T is sweet to know that stocks will standWhen we with daisies lie,That commerce will continue,And trades as briskly fly.It makes the parting tranquilAnd keeps the soul serene,That gentlemen so sprightlyConduct the pleasing scene!XXVIII.
AT LENGTH
Her final summer was it,And yet we guessed it not;If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thoughtA further force of lifeDeveloped from within, —When Death lit all the shortness up,And made the hurry plain.We wondered at our blindness, —When nothing was to seeBut her Carrara guide-post, —At our stupidity,When, duller than our dulness,The busy darling lay,So busy was she, finishing,So leisurely were we!XXIX.
GHOSTS
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one's own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most;Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror's least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O'erlooking a superior spectreMore near.XXX.
VANISHED
She died, – this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.XXXI.
PRECEDENCE
Wait till the majesty of DeathInvests so mean a brow!Almost a powdered footmanMight dare to touch it now!Wait till in everlasting robesThis democrat is dressed,Then prate about "preferment"And "station" and the rest!Around this quiet courtierObsequious angels wait!Full royal is his retinue,Full purple is his state!A lord might dare to lift the hatTo such a modest clay,Since that my Lord, "the Lord of lords"Receives unblushingly!XXXII.
GONE
Went up a year this evening!I recollect it well!Amid no bells nor bravosThe bystanders will tell!Cheerful, as to the village,Tranquil, as to repose,Chastened, as to the chapel,This humble tourist rose.Did not talk of returning,Alluded to no timeWhen, were the gales propitious,We might look for him;Was grateful for the rosesIn life's diverse bouquet,Talked softly of new speciesTo pick another day.Beguiling thus the wonder,The wondrous nearer drew;Hands bustled at the moorings —The crowd respectful grew.Ascended from our visionTo countenances new!A difference, a daisy,Is all the rest I knew!XXXIII.
REQUIEM
Taken from men this morning,Carried by men to-day,Met by the gods with bannersWho marshalled her away.One little maid from playmates,One little mind from school, —There must be guests in Eden;All the rooms are full.Far as the east from even,Dim as the border star, —Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,Our departed are.XXXIV
What inn is thisWhere for the nightPeculiar traveller comes?Who is the landlord?Where the maids?Behold, what curious rooms!No ruddy fires on the hearth,No brimming tankards flow.Necromancer, landlord,Who are these below?XXXV
It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl, —Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And 't was like midnight, some,When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.But most like chaos, – stopless, cool, —Without a chance or spar,Or even a report of landTo justify despair.XXXVI.
TILL THE END
I should not dare to leave my friend,Because – because if he should dieWhile I was gone, and I – too late —Should reach the heart that wanted me;If I should disappoint the eyesThat hunted, hunted so, to see,And could not bear to shut untilThey "noticed" me – they noticed me;If I should stab the patient faithSo sure I 'd come – so sure I 'd come,It listening, listening, went to sleepTelling my tardy name, —My heart would wish it broke before,Since breaking then, since breaking then,Were useless as next morning's sun,Where midnight frosts had lain!XXXVII.
VOID
Great streets of silence led awayTo neighborhoods of pause;Here was no notice, no dissent,No universe, no laws.By clocks 't was morning, and for nightThe bells at distance called;But epoch had no basis here,For period exhaled.XXXVIII
A throe upon the featuresA hurry in the breath,An ecstasy of partingDenominated "Death," —An anguish at the mention,Which, when to patience grown,I 've known permission givenTo rejoin its own.XXXIX.
SAVED!
Of tribulation these are theyDenoted by the white;The spangled gowns, a lesser rankOf victors designate.All these did conquer; but the onesWho overcame most timesWear nothing commoner than snow,No ornament but palms.Surrender is a sort unknownOn this superior soil;Defeat, an outgrown anguish,Remembered as the mileOur panting ankle barely gainedWhen night devoured the road;But we stood whispering in the house,And all we said was "Saved"!XL
I think just how my shape will riseWhen I shall be forgiven,Till hair and eyes and timid headAre out of sight, in heaven.I think just how my lips will weighWith shapeless, quivering prayerThat you, so late, consider me,The sparrow of your care.I mind me that of anguish sent,Some drifts were moved awayBefore my simple bosom broke, —And why not this, if they?And so, until delirious borneI con that thing, – "forgiven," —Till with long fright and longer trustI drop my heart, unshriven!XLI.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
After a hundred yearsNobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,Motionless as peace.Weeds triumphant ranged,Strangers strolled and spelledAt the lone orthographyOf the elder dead.Winds of summer fieldsRecollect the way, —Instinct picking up the keyDropped by memory.XLII
Lay this laurel on the oneToo intrinsic for renown.Laurel! veil your deathless tree, —Him you chasten, that is he!
