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As is well documented, Emily Dickinson's poems were edited in these early editions by her friends, better to fit the conventions of the times. In particular, her dashes, often small enough to appear as dots, became commas and semi-colons. In the second series of poems published, a facsimile of her handwritten poem which her editors titled "Renunciation" is given, and comparing this to the printed version gives a flavor of the changes made in these early editions. —-JT ContentsFirst Series Second Series Third Series Index of First Lines POEMSby EMILY DICKINSONEdited by two of her friends MABEL LOOMIS TODD and T.W. HIGGINSON PREFACE. The verses of Emily Dickinson belong emphatically to what Emerson long since called "the Poetry of the Portfolio,"—something produced absolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way of expression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitably forfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticism and the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, it may often gain something through the habit of freedom and the unconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of the present author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; she must write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit, literally spending years without setting her foot beyond the doorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictly limited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind, like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was with great difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during her lifetime, three or four poems. Yet she wrote verses in great abundance; and though brought curiously indifferent to all conventional rules, had yet a rigorous literary standard of her own, and often altered a word many times to suit an ear which had its own tenacious fastidiousness. Miss Dickinson was born in Amherst, Mass., Dec. 10, 1830, and died there May 15, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward Dickinson, was the leading lawyer of Amherst, and was treasurer of the well-known college there situated. It was his custom once a year to hold a large reception at his house, attended by all the families connected with the institution and by the leading people of the town. On these occasions his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement and did her part as gracious hostess; nor would any one have known from her manner, I have been told, that this was not a daily occurrence. The annual occasion once past, she withdrew again into her seclusion, and except for a very few friends was as invisible to the world as if she had dwelt in a nunnery. For myself, although I had corresponded with her for many years, I saw her but twice face to face, and brought away the impression of something as unique and remote as Undine or Mignon or Thekla. This selection from her poems is published to meet the desire of her personal friends, and especially of her surviving sister. It is believed that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages a quality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than of anything to be elsewhere found,—flashes of wholly original and profound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibiting an extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yet often set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame. They are here published as they were written, with very few and superficial changes; although it is fair to say that the titles have been assigned, almost invariably, by the editors. In many cases these verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed. In other cases, as in the few poems of shipwreck or of mental conflict, we can only wonder at the gift of vivid imagination by which this recluse woman can delineate, by a few touches, the very crises of physical or mental struggle. And sometimes again we catch glimpses of a lyric strain, sustained perhaps but for a line or two at a time, and making the reader regret its sudden cessation. But the main quality of these poems is that of extraordinary grasp and insight, uttered with an uneven vigor sometimes exasperating, seemingly wayward, but really unsought and inevitable. After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence. As Ruskin wrote in his earlier and better days, "No weight nor mass nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought." —-Thomas Wentworth Higginson This is my letter to the world, Her message is committed I. LIFE. I. SUCCESS. [Published in "A Masque of Poets" Success is counted sweetest Not one of all the purple host As he, defeated, dying,
Our share of night to bear, Here a star, and there a star, III. ROUGE ET NOIR. Soul, wilt thou toss again? Angels' breathless ballot
ROUGE GAGNE. 'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy! Life is but life, and death but death! And if I gain, — oh, gun at sea,
Glee! The great storm is over! Ring, for the scant salvation! How they will tell the shipwreck Then a silence suffuses the story,
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
ALMOST! Within my reach!
A wounded deer leaps highest, The smitten rock that gushes, Mirth is the mail of anguish,
The heart asks pleasure first, And then, to go to sleep;
IN A LIBRARY. A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is His venerable hand to take, His quaint opinions to inspect, What interested scholars most, When Sappho was a living girl, He traverses familiar, His presence is enchantment,
Much madness is divinest sense
I asked no other thing, Brazil? He twirled a button,
EXCLUSION. The soul selects her own society, Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing I've known her from an ample nation
THE SECRET. Some things that fly there be, — Some things that stay there be, — There are, that resting, rise.
THE LONELY HOUSE. I know some lonely houses off the road How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, A pair of spectacles ajar just stir — There's plunder, — where? Day rattles, too,
To fight aloud is very brave, Who win, and nations do not see, We trust, in plumed procession,
DAWN. When night is almost done, And get the dimples ready,
THE BOOK OF MARTYRS. Read, sweet, how others strove, Read then of faith
THE MYSTERY OF PAIN. Pain has an element of blank; It has no future but itself,
I taste a liquor never brewed, Inebriate of air am I, When landlords turn the drunken bee Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
A BOOK. He ate and drank the precious words,
I had no time to hate, because Nor had I time to love; but since
UNRETURNING. 'T was such a little, little boat 'T was such a greedy, greedy wave
Whether my bark went down at sea, By what mystic mooring
Belshazzar had a letter, —
The brain within its groove II. LOVE.
MINE. Mine by the right of the white election! Mine, here in vision and in veto!
BEQUEST. You left me, sweet, two legacies, — You left me boundaries of pain
Alter? When the hills do. Surfeit? When the daffodil
SUSPENSE. Elysium is as far as to What fortitude the soul contains,
SURRENDER. Doubt me, my dim companion! It cannot be my spirit,
If you were coming in the fall, If I could see you in a year, If only centuries delayed, If certain, when this life was out, But now, all ignorant of the length
WITH A FLOWER. I hide myself within my flower, I hide myself within my flower,
PROOF. That I did always love, That I shall love alway, This, dost thou doubt, sweet?
Have you got a brook in your little heart, And nobody knows, so still it flows, Then look out for the little brook in March, And later, in August it may be,
TRANSPLANTED. As if some little Arctic flower,
THE OUTLET. My river runs to thee: My river waits reply. I'll fetch thee brooks Say, sea,
IN VAIN. I cannot live with you, The sexton keeps the key to, Discarded of the housewife, I could not die with you, And I, could I stand by Nor could I rise with you, Glow plain and foreign They'd judge us — how? Because you saturated sight, And were you lost, I would be, And were you saved, So we must keep apart,
RENUNCIATION. There came a day at summer's full Entirely for me; I thought that such were for the saints, Where revelations be. The sun, as common, went abroad, The time was scarce profaned by speech; Each was to each the sealed church, The hours slid fast, as hours will, And so, when all the time had failed, Sufficient troth that we shall rise —
LOVE'S BAPTISM. I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs; Baptized before without the choice, My second rank, too small the first,
RESURRECTION. 'T was a long parting, but the time These fleshless lovers met, No lifetime set on them, Was bridal e'er like this?
APOCALYPSE. I'm wife; I've finished that, How odd the girl's life looks This being comfort, then
THE WIFE. She rose to his requirement, dropped If aught she missed in her new day It lay unmentioned, as the sea
APOTHEOSIS. Come slowly, Eden! Reaching late his flower, III. NATURE.
New feet within my garden go, New children play upon the green,
MAY-FLOWER. Pink, small, and punctual, Dear to the moss, Bold little beauty,
WHY? The murmur of a bee The red upon the hill The breaking of the day
Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? Unties her yellow bonnet Why, I will lend until just then,
The pedigree of honey
A SERVICE OF SONG. Some keep the Sabbath going to church; Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; God preaches, — a noted clergyman, —
The bee is not afraid of me, The brooks laugh louder when I come,
SUMMER'S ARMIES. Some rainbow coming from the fair! The dreamy butterflies bestir, The robins stand as thick to-day Without commander, countless, still,
THE GRASS. The grass so little has to do, — And stir all day to pretty tunes And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And even when it dies, to pass And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
A little road not made of man, If town it have, beyond itself,
SUMMER SHOWER. A drop fell on the apple tree, A few went out to help the brook, The dust replaced in hoisted roads, The breezes brought dejected lutes,
PSALM OF THE DAY. A something in a summer's day, A something in a summer's noon, — And still within a summer's night Then veil my too inspecting face, The wizard-fingers never rest, Still rears the East her amber flag, Like flowers that heard the tale of dews, Or bees, that thought the summer's name Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred Or wind's bright signal to the ear, The heaven unexpected came,
THE SEA OF SUNSET. This is the land the sunset washes, Night after night her purple traffic
PURPLE CLOVER. There is a flower that bees prefer, And whatsoever insect pass, Her face is rounder than the moon, She doth not wait for June; Contending with the grass, And when the hills are full, Her public is the noon, The bravest of the host,
THE BEE. Like trains of cars on tracks of plush Withstands until the sweet assault His feet are shod with gauze, His labor is a chant,
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
As children bid the guest good-night, As children caper when they wake,
Angels in the early morning Angels when the sun is hottest
So bashful when I spied her, So breathless till I passed her, For whom I robbed the dingle,
TWO WORLDS. It makes no difference abroad, Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, Auto-da-fe and judgment
THE MOUNTAIN. The mountain sat upon the plain The seasons prayed around his knees,
A DAY. I'll tell you how the sun rose, — The hills untied their bonnets, * * * But how he set, I know not. Till when they reached the other side,
The butterfly's assumption-gown, How condescending to descend,
THE WIND. Of all the sounds despatched abroad, The wind does, working like a hand When winds go round and round in bands, I crave him grace, of summer boughs, As if some caravan of sound
DEATH AND LIFE. Apparently with no surprise
'T was later when the summer went 'T was sooner when the cricket went
INDIAN SUMMER. These are the days when birds come back, These are the days when skies put on Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, Oh, sacrament of summer days, Thy sacred emblems to partake,
AUTUMN. The morns are meeker than they were, The maple wears a gayer scarf,
BECLOUDED. The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A narrow wind complains all day
THE HEMLOCK. I think the hemlock likes to stand That men must slake in wilderness, The hemlock's nature thrives on cold; To satin races he is nought;
There's a certain slant of light, Heavenly hurt it gives us; None may teach it anything, When it comes, the landscape listens, IV. TIME AND ETERNITY. I. One dignity delays for all, Coach it insures, and footmen, What dignified attendants, How pomp surpassing ermine,
TOO LATE. Delayed till she had ceased to know, Could she have guessed that it would be; Oh, if there may departing be
ASTRA CASTRA. Departed to the judgment, The flesh surrendered, cancelled,
Safe in their alabaster chambers, Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine; Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
On this long storm the rainbow rose, The birds rose smiling in their nests, The quiet nonchalance of death
FROM THE CHRYSALIS. My cocoon tightens, colors tease, A power of butterfly must be So I must baffle at the hint
SETTING SAIL. Exultation is the going Bred as we, among the mountains,
Look back on time with kindly eyes, IX. A train went through a burial gate, And then adjusted his little notes,
I died for beauty, but was scarce He questioned softly why I failed? And so, as kinsmen met a night,
"TROUBLED ABOUT MANY THINGS." How many times these low feet staggered, Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often, Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window;
REAL. I like a look of agony, The eyes glaze once, and that is death.
THE FUNERAL. That short, potential stir Is the eclat of death.
I went to thank her, Who went to thank her;
I've seen a dying eye
REFUGE. The clouds their backs together laid,
I never saw a moor, I never spoke with God,
PLAYMATES. God permits industrious angels God calls home the angels promptly
To know just how he suffered would be dear; To know if he was patient, part content, What was his furthest mind, of home, or God, And wishes, had he any? And if he spoke, what name was best, Was he afraid, or tranquil?
The last night that she lived, We noticed smallest things, — That others could exist We waited while she passed; She mentioned, and forgot; And we, we placed the hair,
THE FIRST LESSON. Not in this world to see his face And yet, my primer suits me so
The bustle in a house The sweeping up the heart,
I reason, earth is short, I reason, we could die: I reason that in heaven
Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing Of resurrection? Is the east
DYING. The sun kept setting, setting still; The dusk kept dropping, dropping still; My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still, How well I knew the light before!
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar The stray ships passing spied a face
THE CHARIOT. Because I could not stop for Death, We slowly drove, he knew no haste, We passed the school where children played, We paused before a house that seemed Since then 't is centuries; but each
She went as quiet as the dew She dropt as softly as a star
RESURGAM. At last to be identified!
Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for winds, provincial; The smallest housewife in the grass,
Death is a dialogue between Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
It was too late for man, How excellent the heaven,
ALONG THE POTOMAC. When I was small, a woman died. To look at her; how slowly If pride shall be in Paradise But proud in apparition,
The daisy follows soft the sun, We are the flower, Thou the sun!
EMANCIPATION. No rack can torture me, You cannot prick with saw, The eagle of his nest Except thyself may be
LOST. I lost a world the other day. A rich man might not notice it;
If I shouldn't be alive If I couldn't thank you,
Sleep is supposed to be, Sleep is the station grand Morn is supposed to be, Morning has not occurred! One with the banner gay,
I shall know why, when time is over, He will tell me what Peter promised,
I never lost as much but twice, Angels, twice descending, POEMSby EMILY DICKINSONSecond SeriesEdited by two of her friends MABEL LOOMIS TODD and T.W. HIGGINSON PREFACE The eagerness with which the first volume of Emily Dickinson's poems has been read shows very clearly that all our alleged modern artificiality does not prevent a prompt appreciation of the qualities of directness and simplicity in approaching the greatest themes,—life and love and death. That "irresistible needle-touch," as one of her best critics has called it, piercing at once the very core of a thought, has found a response as wide and sympathetic as it has been unexpected even to those who knew best her compelling power. This second volume, while open to the same criticism as to form with its predecessor, shows also the same shining beauties. Although Emily Dickinson had been in the habit of sending occasional poems to friends and correspondents, the full extent of her writing was by no means imagined by them. Her friend "H.H." must at least have suspected it, for in a letter dated 5th September, 1884, she wrote:— MY DEAR FRIEND,— What portfolios full of verses you must have! It is a cruel wrong to your "day and generation" that you will not give them light. If such a thing should happen as that I should outlive you, I wish you would make me your literary legatee and executor. Surely after you are what is called "dead" you will be willing that the poor ghosts you have left behind should be cheered and pleased by your verses, will you not? You ought to be. I do not think we have a right to withhold from the world a word or a thought any more than a deed which might help a single soul. . . . Truly yours, HELEN JACKSON. The "portfolios" were found, shortly after Emily Dickinson's death, by her sister and only surviving housemate. Most of the poems had been carefully copied on sheets of note-paper, and tied in little fascicules, each of six or eight sheets. While many of them bear evidence of having been thrown off at white heat, still more had received thoughtful revision. There is the frequent addition of rather perplexing foot-notes, affording large choice of words and phrases. And in the copies which she sent to friends, sometimes one form, sometimes another, is found to have been used. Without important exception, her friends have generously placed at the disposal of the Editors any poems they had received from her; and these have given the obvious advantage of comparison among several renderings of the same verse. To what further rigorous pruning her verses would have been subjected had she published them herself, we cannot know. They should be regarded in many cases as merely the first strong and suggestive sketches of an artist, intended to be embodied at some time in the finished picture. Emily Dickinson appears to have written her first poems in the winter of 1862. In a letter to one of the present Editors the April following, she says, "I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter." The handwriting was at first somewhat like the delicate, running Italian hand of our elder gentlewomen; but as she advanced in breadth of thought, it grew bolder and more abrupt, until in her latest years each letter stood distinct and separate from its fellows. In most of her poems, particularly the later ones, everything by way of punctuation was discarded, except numerous dashes; and all important words began with capitals. The effect of a page of her more recent manuscript is exceedingly quaint and strong. The fac-simile given in the present volume is from one of the earlier transition periods. Although there is nowhere a date, the handwriting makes it possible to arrange the poems with general chronologic accuracy. As a rule, the verses were without titles; but "A Country Burial," "A Thunder-Storm," "The Humming-Bird," and a few others were named by their author, frequently at the end,—sometimes only in the accompanying note, if sent to a friend. The variation of readings, with the fact that she often wrote in pencil and not always clearly, have at times thrown a good deal of responsibility upon her Editors. But all interference not absolutely inevitable has been avoided. The very roughness of her rendering is part of herself, and not lightly to be touched; for it seems in many cases that she intentionally avoided the smoother and more usual rhymes. Like impressionist pictures, or Wagner's rugged music, the very absence of conventional form challenges attention. In Emily Dickinson's exacting hands, the especial, intrinsic fitness of a particular order of words might not be sacrificed to anything virtually extrinsic; and her verses all show a strange cadence of inner rhythmical music. Lines are always daringly constructed, and the "thought-rhyme" appears frequently,—appealing, indeed, to an unrecognized sense more elusive than hearing. Emily Dickinson scrutinized everything with clear-eyed frankness. Every subject was proper ground for legitimate study, even the sombre facts of death and burial, and the unknown life beyond. She touches these themes sometimes lightly, sometimes almost humorously, more often with weird and peculiar power; but she is never by any chance frivolous or trivial. And while, as one critic has said, she may exhibit toward God "an Emersonian self-possession," it was because she looked upon all life with a candor as unprejudiced as it is rare. She had tried society and the world, and found them lacking. She was not an invalid, and she lived in seclusion from no love-disappointment. Her life was the normal blossoming of a nature introspective to a high degree, whose best thought could not exist in pretence. Storm, wind, the wild March sky, sunsets and dawns; the birds and bees, butterflies and flowers of her garden, with a few trusted human friends, were sufficient companionship. The coming of the first robin was a jubilee beyond crowning of monarch or birthday of pope; the first red leaf hurrying through "the altered air," an epoch. Immortality was close about her; and while never morbid or melancholy, she lived in its presence. MABEL LOOMIS TODD. AMHERST, MASSACHUSETTS, August, 1891. My nosegays are for captives; To such, if they should whisper I. LIFE. I. I'm nobody! Who are you? How dreary to be somebody!
I bring an unaccustomed wine Crackling with fever, they essay; The hands still hug the tardy glass; I would as soon attempt to warm Some other thirsty there may be And so I always bear the cup If, haply, any say to me,
The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. Homesick for steadfast honey,
We play at paste,
I found the phrase to every thought To races nurtured in the dark; —
HOPE. Hope is the thing with feathers And sweetest in the gale is heard; I 've heard it in the chillest land,
THE WHITE HEAT. Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Has sated flame's conditions, Least village boasts its blacksmith, Refining these impatient ores
TRIUMPHANT. Who never lost, are unprepared Who never climbed the weary league — How many legions overcome? How many bullets bearest?
THE TEST. I can wade grief, Power is only pain,
ESCAPE. I never hear the word "escape" I never hear of prisons broad XI. COMPENSATION. For each ecstatic instant For each beloved hour
THE MARTYRS. Through the straight pass of suffering A stately, shriven company; Their faith the everlasting troth;
A PRAYER. I meant to have but modest needs, But since the last included both, And so, upon this wise I prayed, — A smile suffused Jehovah's face; I left the place with all my might, — That one so honest be extant But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies
The thought beneath so slight a film
The soul unto itself Secure against its own,
Surgeons must be very careful
THE RAILWAY TRAIN. I like to see it lap the miles, Around a pile of mountains, To fit its sides, and crawl between, And neigh like Boanerges;
THE SHOW. The show is not the show,
Delight becomes pictorial The mountain at a given distance
A thought went up my mind to-day Nor where it went, nor why it came But somewhere in my soul, I know
Is Heaven a physician? Is Heaven an exchequer?
THE RETURN. Though I get home how late, how late! To think just how the fire will burn,
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, The angels, happening that way,
TOO MUCH. I should have been too glad, I see, I should have been too saved, I see, Earth would have been too much, I see, Defeat whets victory, they say;
SHIPWRECK. It tossed and tossed, — It slipped and slipped, Ah, brig, good-night
Victory comes late,
ENOUGH. God gave a loaf to every bird, It might be famine all around,
Experiment to me Presents upon a tree,
MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE. My country need not change her gown, Great Britain disapproves "the stars;" XXX. Faith is a fine invention
Except the heaven had come so near, But just to hear the grace depart
Portraits are to daily faces
THE DUEL. I took my power in my hand. I aimed my pebble, but myself
A shady friend for torrid days The vane a little to the east Who is to blame? The weaver?
THE GOAL. Each life converges to some centre Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be, Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven, Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance; Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,
SIGHT. Before I got my eye put out, But were it told to me, to-day, The meadows mine, the mountains mine, — The motions of the dipping birds, So safer, guess, with just my soul
Talk with prudence to a beggar Cautious, hint to any captive
THE PREACHER. He preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow, — Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence
Good night! which put the candle out? It might have been the lighthouse spark
When I hoped I feared,
DEED. A deed knocks first at thought, It then goes out an act,
TIME'S LESSON. Mine enemy is growing old, — Let him be quick, the viand flits,
REMORSE. Remorse is memory awake, It's past set down before the soul, Remorse is cureless, — the disease
THE SHELTER. The body grows outside, — Ajar, secure, inviting;
Undue significance a starving man attaches Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us
Heart not so heavy as mine, A careless snatch, a ballad, It was as if a bobolink, It was as if a chirping brook To-morrow, night will come again,
I many times thought peace had come, And struggle slacker, but to prove,
Unto my books so good to turn As flavors cheer retarded guests It may be wilderness without, I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;
This merit hath the worst, — The maimed may pause and breathe,
HUNGER. I had been hungry all the years; 'T was this on tables I had seen, I did not know the ample bread, The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, — Nor was I hungry; so I found
I gained it so, I said I gained it, —
To learn the transport by the pain, To stay the homesick, homesick feet This is the sovereign anguish, Ascend in ceaseless carol,
RETURNING. I years had been from home, Stare vacant into mine I fumbled at my nerve, I laughed a wooden laugh I fitted to the latch I moved my fingers off
PRAYER. Prayer is the little implement By means of it in God's ear;
I know that he exists 'T is an instant's play, But should the play Would not the fun
MELODIES UNHEARD. Musicians wrestle everywhere: It is not bird, it has no nest; Some say it is the spheres at play!
CALLED BACK. Just lost when I was saved! Therefore, as one returned, I feel, Next time, to stay! Next time, to tarry, II. LOVE.
CHOICE. Of all the souls that stand create When that which is and that which was When figures show their royal front
I have no life but this, Nor tie to earths to come,
Your riches taught me poverty. You drifted your dominions Of mines I little know, myself, So much that, did I meet the queen, I 'm sure 't is India all day I 'm sure it is Golconda, At least, it solaces to know It 's far, far treasure to surmise,
THE CONTRACT. I gave myself to him, The wealth might disappoint, Depreciate the vision; At least, 't is mutual risk, —
THE LETTER. "Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him — "Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, "Tell him night finished before we finished,
The way I read a letter 's this: And then I go the furthest off Then, glancing narrow at the wall, Peruse how infinite I am
Wild nights! Wild nights! Futile the winds Rowing in Eden!
AT HOME. The night was wide, and furnished scant The wind pursued the little bush, No squirrel went abroad; To feel if blinds be fast, The housewife's gentle task.
POSSESSION. Did the harebell loose her girdle Did the paradise, persuaded,
A charm invests a face But peers beyond her mesh,
THE LOVERS. The rose did caper on her cheek, Her fingers fumbled at her work, — Till opposite I spied a cheek A vest that, like the bodice, danced
In lands I never saw, they say, Meek at whose everlasting feet
The moon is distant from the sea, He never misses a degree; Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,
He put the belt around my life, — Yet not too far to come at call,
THE LOST JEWEL. I held a jewel in my fingers I woke and chid my honest fingers, —
What if I say I shall not wait? They cannot take us any more, — III. NATURE.
MOTHER NATURE. Nature, the gentlest mother, In forest and the hill How fair her conversation, Her voice among the aisles When all the children sleep With infinite affection
OUT OF THE MORNING. Will there really be a morning? Has it feet like water-lilies? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
At half-past three a single bird At half-past four, experiment At half-past seven, element
DAY'S PARLOR. The day came slow, till five o'clock, The purple could not keep the east, The happy winds their timbrels took; The orchard sparkled like a Jew, —
THE SUN'S WOOING. The sun just touched the morning; She felt herself supremer, — Trailed slow along the orchards The morning fluttered, staggered, VI. THE ROBIN. The robin is the one The robin is the one The robin is the one
THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY. From cocoon forth a butterfly Without design, that I could trace, Her pretty parasol was seen Where parties, phantom as herself, And notwithstanding bee that worked, Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
THE BLUEBIRD. Before you thought of spring, With specimens of song,
APRIL. An altered look about the hills;
THE SLEEPING FLOWERS. "Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Perhaps they did not hear," I said; "'T is daisy in the shortest; "'T is iris, sir, and aster, Meanwhile at many cradles "Hush! Epigea wakens! — Then, turning from them, reverent,
MY ROSE. Pigmy seraphs gone astray,
THE ORIOLE'S SECRET. To hear an oriole sing It is not of the bird The fashion of the ear So whether it be rune, The "tune is in the tree,"
THE ORIOLE. One of the ones that Midas touched, So drunk, he disavows it A pleader, a dissembler, The Jesuit of orchards, The splendor of a Burmah, I never thought that Jason sought But if there were a Jason,
IN SHADOW. I dreaded that first robin so, I thought if I could only live I dared not meet the daffodils, I wished the grass would hurry, I could not bear the bees should come, They 're here, though; not a creature failed, Each one salutes me as he goes,
THE HUMMING-BIRD. A route of evanescence
SECRETS. The skies can't keep their secret! A bird, by chance, that goes that way I think I won't, however, So keep your secret, Father!
Who robbed the woods,
TWO VOYAGERS. Two butterflies went out at noon And then together bore away If spoken by the distant bird,
BY THE SEA. I started early, took my dog, And frigates in the upper floor But no man moved me till the tide And made as he would eat me up And he — he followed close behind; Until we met the solid town,
OLD-FASHIONED. Arcturus is his other name, — I pull a flower from the woods, — Whereas I took the butterfly What once was heaven, is zenith now. What if the poles should frisk about Perhaps the kingdom of Heaven 's changed! I hope the father in the skies
A TEMPEST. An awful tempest mashed the air, The creatures chuckled on the roofs The morning lit, the birds arose;
THE SEA. An everywhere of silver,
IN THE GARDEN. A bird came down the walk: And then he drank a dew He glanced with rapid eyes Like one in danger; cautious, Than oars divide the ocean,
THE SNAKE. A narrow fellow in the grass The grass divides as with a comb, He likes a boggy acre, Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash Several of nature's people But never met this fellow,
THE MUSHROOM. The mushroom is the elf of plants, As if it tarried always; 'T is vegetation's juggler, I feel as if the grass were pleased Had nature any outcast face,
THE STORM. There came a wind like a bugle;
THE SPIDER. A spider sewed at night
I know a place where summer strives But when the south wind stirs the pools Into the lap of adamant,
The one that could repeat the summer day XXX. THE WIND'S VISIT. The wind tapped like a tired man, A rapid, footless guest, No bone had he to bind him, His countenance a billow, He visited, still flitting;
Nature rarer uses yellow Spending scarlet like a woman,
GOSSIP. The leaves, like women, interchange The parties in both cases
SIMPLICITY. How happy is the little stone
STORM. It sounded as if the streets were running, By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,
THE RAT. The rat is the concisest tenant. Balking our wit Neither decree
Frequently the woods are pink, Oft a head is crested And the earth, they tell me,
A THUNDER-STORM. The wind begun to rock the grass The leaves unhooked themselves from trees The wagons quickened on the streets, The birds put up the bars to nests, That held the dams had parted hold,
WITH FLOWERS. South winds jostle them, Butterflies pause
SUNSET. Where ships of purple gently toss
She sweeps with many-colored brooms, You dropped a purple ravelling in, And still she plies her spotted brooms,
Like mighty footlights burned the red 'T was universe that did applaud
PROBLEMS. Bring me the sunset in a cup, Write me how many notes there be Also, who laid the rainbow's piers, Who built this little Alban house
THE JUGGLER OF DAY. Blazing in gold and quenching in purple, Stooping as low as the otter's window,
MY CRICKET. Farther in summer than the birds, No ordinance is seen, Antiquest felt at noon Remit as yet no grace,
As imperceptibly as grief A quietness distilled, The dusk drew earlier in, And thus, without a wing,
It can't be summer, — that got through; It can't be dying, — it's too rouge, —
SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES. The gentian weaves her fringes, A brief, but patient illness, It was a short procession, — We trust that she was willing, — In the name of the bee
FRINGED GENTIAN. God made a little gentian;
NOVEMBER. Besides the autumn poets sing, A few incisive mornings, Still is the bustle in the brook, Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It makes an even face It reaches to the fence, On stump and stack and stem, — It ruffles wrists of posts,
THE BLUE JAY. No brigadier throughout the year Pursuing winds that censure us The snow and he are intimate; I felt apology were due The pillow of this daring head His character a tonic, IV. TIME AND ETERNITY. I. Let down the bars, O Death! Thine is the stillest night,
Going to heaven! Perhaps you 're going too! The smallest "robe" will fit me, I 'm glad I don't believe it,
At least to pray is left, is left. Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
EPITAPH. Step lightly on this narrow spot! Step lofty; for this name is told
Morns like these we parted; Never did she lisp it, Till the evening, nearing,
A death-blow is a life-blow to some
I read my sentence steadily, The date, and manner of the shame; I made my soul familiar But she and Death, acquainted,
I have not told my garden yet, I will not name it in the street, The hillsides must not know it, Nor lisp it at the table,
THE BATTLE-FIELD. They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, They perished in the seamless grass, —
The only ghost I ever saw His conversation seldom,
Some, too fragile for winter winds, Never the treasures in her nest This covert have all the children
As by the dead we love to sit, In broken mathematics
MEMORIALS. Death sets a thing significant To ponder little workmanships The thimble weighed too heavy, A book I have, a friend gave, Now, when I read, I read not,
I went to heaven, —
Their height in heaven comforts not, The house of supposition, The wealth I had contented me; Better than larger values,
There is a shame of nobleness A best disgrace a brave man feels,
TRIUMPH. Triumph may be of several kinds. There 's triumph of the finer mind A triumph when temptation's bribe Severer triumph, by himself
Pompless no life can pass away;
I noticed people disappeared, Now know I they both visited
FOLLOWING. I had no cause to be awake, But called the others clear, I looked at sunrise once, 'T was such an ample peace, So choosing but a gown
If anybody's friend be dead, Their costume, of a Sunday, How warm they were on such a day: How pleased they were at what you said; You asked the company to tea, Past bows and invitations,
THE JOURNEY. Our journey had advanced; Our pace took sudden awe, Retreat was out of hope, —
A COUNTRY BURIAL. Ample make this bed. Be its mattress straight,
GOING. On such a night, or such a night, So quiet, oh, how quiet! On such a dawn, or such a dawn, For chanticleer to wake it, — There was a little figure plump Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,
Essential oils are wrung: The general rose decays;
I lived on dread; to those who know As 't were a spur upon the soul,
If I should die,
AT LENGTH. Her final summer was it, A further force of life We wondered at our blindness, — When, duller than our dullness,
GHOSTS. One need not be a chamber to be haunted, Far safer, of a midnight meeting Far safer through an Abbey gallop, Ourself, behind ourself concealed, The prudent carries a revolver,
VANISHED. She died, — this was the way she died; Her little figure at the gate
PRECEDENCE. Wait till the majesty of Death Wait till in everlasting robes Around this quiet courtier A lord might dare to lift the hat
GONE. Went up a year this evening! Beguiling thus the wonder,
REQUIEM. Taken from men this morning, One little maid from playmates, Far as the east from even,
What inn is this
It was not death, for I stood up, It was not frost, for on my flesh And yet it tasted like them all; As if my life were shaven When everything that ticked has stopped, But most like chaos, — stopless, cool, —
TILL THE END. I should not dare to leave my friend, If I should disappoint the eyes If I should stab the patient faith My heart would wish it broke before,
VOID. Great streets of silence led away By clocks 't was morning, and for night
A throe upon the features An anguish at the mention,
SAVED! Of tribulation these are they All these did conquer; but the ones Surrender is a sort unknown Our panting ankle barely gained
I think just how my shape will rise I think just how my lips will weigh I mind me that of anguish sent, And so, until delirious borne
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. After a hundred years Weeds triumphant ranged, Winds of summer fields
Lay this laurel on the one POEMSby EMILY DICKINSONThird SeriesEdited by MABEL LOOMIS TODD It's all I have to bring to-day, PREFACE. The intellectual activity of Emily Dickinson was so great that a large and characteristic choice is still possible among her literary material, and this third volume of her verses is put forth in response to the repeated wish of the admirers of her peculiar genius. Much of Emily Dickinson's prose was rhythmic, —even rhymed, though frequently not set apart in lines. Also many verses, written as such, were sent to friends in letters; these were published in 1894, in the volumes of her Letters. It has not been necessary, however, to include them in this Series, and all have been omitted, except three or four exceptionally strong ones, as "A Book," and "With Flowers." There is internal evidence that many of the poems were simply spontaneous flashes of insight, apparently unrelated to outward circumstance. Others, however, had an obvious personal origin; for example, the verses "I had a Guinea golden," which seem to have been sent to some friend travelling in Europe, as a dainty reminder of letter-writing delinquencies. The surroundings in which any of Emily Dickinson's verses are known to have been written usually serve to explain them clearly; but in general the present volume is full of thoughts needing no interpretation to those who apprehend this scintillating spirit. When can you buy Pa Doe license 2022?Pennsylvania's 2022-23 hunting and trapping seasons are fast approaching, with licenses set to go on sale June 13. Buying one is key to getting in on some exciting action. The new license year begins July 1.
How do I get a deer tag in Indiana?Use the Indiana Fish & Wildlife Online License System. Customer Service Center hours are 8:30 a.m. to 4 p.m., call 317-232-4200, Monday through Friday. Send your order with the following: Name.
Where to buy deer tags in Iowa?Call 1-800-367-1188. Visit an Iowa Department of Natural Resources office or an approved license retailer.
Where do I get a hunting license in Kansas?All annual hunting licenses can be purchased online by clicking here or through all licensed agents, or Kansas Department of Wildlife & Parks offices, or by calling 1-833-587-2164.
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