(129) HER Grace is all she has, And that, so vast displays, One Art, to recognize, must be, Another Art to praise.
-Emily Dickinson
IF I could tell how glad I was
(128) IF I could tell how glad I was, I should not be so glad, But when I cannot make the Force Nor mould it into word, I know it is a sign That new Dilemma be From mathematics further off, Than from Eternity.
-Emily Dickinson
ON my volcano grows the grass
(127) ON my volcano grows the grass,— A meditative spot, An area for a bird to choose Would be the general thought. How red the fire reeks below, How insecure the sod— Did I disclose, would populate With awe my solitude.
-Emily Dickinson
I SHOWED her heights she never saw
(126) I SHOWED her heights she never saw— “Wouldst climb?” I said, She said “Not so”— “With me?” I said, “With me?” I showed her secrets Morning’s nest, The rope that Nights were put across— And now, “Wouldst have me for a Guest?” She could not find her yes— And then, I brake my life, and Lo! A light for her, did solemn glow, The larger, as her face withdrew— And could she, further, “No?”
-Emily Dickinson
TO love thee, year by year
(125) TO love thee, year by year, May less appear Than sacrifice and cease. However, Dear, Forever might be short I thought, to show, And so I pieced it with a flower now.
-Emily Dickinson
TO tell the beauty would decrease
(124) TO tell the beauty would decrease, To state the Spell demean, There is a syllableless sea Of which it is the sign. My will endeavours for its word And fails, but entertains A rapture as of legacies— Of introspective mines.
-Emily Dickinson
CRISIS is sweet and, set of Heart
(123) CRISIS is sweet and, set of Heart Upon the hither side, Has dowers of prospective Surrendered by the Tried. Inquire of the closing Rose Which Rapture she preferred, And she will tell you, sighing, The transport of the Bud.
-Emily Dickinson
HOW destitute is he
(122) HOW destitute is he Whose Gold is firm, Who finds it every time, The small stale sum— When Love, with but a pence Will so display, As is a disrespect to India!
-Emily Dickinson
THE treason of an accent
(121) THE treason of an accent Might vilify the Joy— To breathe,—corrode the rapture Of Sanctity to be.
-Emily Dickinson
DISTANCE is not the realm of Fox
(120) DISTANCE is not the realm of Fox, Nor by relay as Bird; Abated, Distance is until Thyself, Beloved!
-Emily Dickinson