Journey 2 Being

(79)

I SEE thee better in the dark,
I do not need a light.
The love of thee a prism be
Excelling violet.


I see thee better for the years
That hunch themselves between,
The miner’s lamp sufficient be
To nullify the mine.


And in the grave I see thee best—
Its little panels be
A-glow, all ruddy with the light
I held so high for thee!


What need of day to those whose dark
Hath so surpassing sun,
It seem it be continually
At the meridian?

-Emily Dickinson

(78)

TO-DAY or this noon
She dwelt so close,
I almost touched her;
Tonight she lies
Past neighborhood—
And bough and steeple—
Now past surmise.

-Emily Dickinson

(77)

I WATCHED her face to see which way
She took the awful news,
Whether she died before she heard—
Or in protracted bruise
Remained a few short years with us,
Each heavier than the last—
A further afternoon to fail,
As Flower at fall of Frost.

-Emily Dickinson

(76)

TOO cold is this
To warm with sun,
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this agate were a feat
Outstaring masonry.
How went the agile kernel out—
Contusion of the husk,
Nor rip, nor wrinkle indicate,—
But just an Asterisk.

-Emily Dickinson

(75)

’T WAS comfort in her dying room
To hear the living clock,
A short relief to have the wind
Walk boldly up and knock,
Diversion from the dying theme
To hear the children play,
But wrong, the mere
That these could live,—
And This of ours must die!

-Emily Dickinson

(74)

THIS quiet Dust was Gentlemen and Ladies,
And Lads and Girls;
Was laughter and ability and sighing,
And frocks and curls.
This passive place a Summer’s nimble mansion,
Where Bloom and Bees
Fulfilled their Oriental Circuit,
Then ceased like these.

-Emily Dickinson

(73)

DROPPED into the
Ether Acre!
Wearing the sod gown—
Bonnet of Everlasting laces—
Brooch frozen on!
Horses of blonde—
And coach of silver,
Baggage a strapped Pearl!
Journey of Down
And whip of Diamond—
Riding to meet the Earl!

-Emily Dickinson

(72)

FOR Death,—or rather
For the things ’t will buy,
These put away
Life’s opportunity.
The things that Death will buy
Are Room,—Escape
From Circumstances,
And a Name.
How gifts of Life
With Death’s gifts will compare,
We know not—
For the rates stop Here.

-Emily Dickinson

(71)

NOT any sunny tone
From any fervent zone
Finds entrance there.
Better a grave of Balm
Toward human nature’s home,
And Robins near,
Than a stupendous Tomb
Proclaiming to the gloom
How dead we are.

-Emily Dickinson

(70)

IN winter, in my room,
I came upon a worm,
Pink, lank, and warm.
But as he was a worm
And worms presume,
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring,
And went along.


A trifle afterward
A thing occurred,
I ’d not believe it if I heard—
But state with creeping blood;
A snake, with mottles rare,
Surveyed my chamber floor,
In feature as the worm before,
But ringed with power.
The very string
With which I tied him, too,
When he was mean and new,
That string was there.
I shrank—“How fair you are!”
Propitiation’s claw—
“Afraid,” he hissed,
“Of me?”
“No cordiality?”
He fathomed me.
Then, to a rhythm slim
Secreted in his form,
As patterns swim,
Projected him.


That time I flew,
Both eyes his way,
Lest he pursue—
Nor ever ceased to run,
Till, in a distant town,
Towns on from mine—
I sat me down;
This was a dream.

-Emily Dickinson