(9) TO be alive is power, Existence in itself, Without a further function, Omnipotence enough. To be alive and Will— ’T is able as a God! The Further of ourselves be what— Such being Finitude?
-Emily Dickinson
REVERSE cannot befall that fine Prosperity
(8) REVERSE cannot befall that fine Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake, In far Bolivian ground; Misfortune hath no implement Could mar it, if it found.
-Emily Dickinson
WHEN Etna basks and purrs
(7) WHEN Etna basks and purrs, Naples is more afraid Than when she shows her Garnet Tooth; Security is loud.
-Emily Dickinson
PERIL as a possession
(6) PERIL as a possession ’T is good to bear, Danger disintegrates satiety; There ’s Basis there Begets an awe, That searches Human Nature’s creases As clean as Fire.
-Emily Dickinson
THE right to perish might be thought
(5) THE right to perish might be thought An undisputed right, Attempt it, and the Universe upon the opposite Will concentrate its officers— You cannot even die, But Nature and Mankind must pause To pay you scrutiny.
-Emily Dickinson
FAME is a fickle food
(4) FAME is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer’s corn; Men eat of it and die.
-Emily Dickinson
EXCEPT the smaller size, no Lives are round
(3) EXCEPT the smaller size, no Lives are round, These hurry to a sphere, and show, and end. The larger, slower grow, and later hang— The Summers of Hesperides are long.
-Emily Dickinson
THE soul that has a Guest
(2) THE soul that has a Guest, Doth seldom go abroad, Diviner Crowd at home Obliterate the need, And courtesy forbid A Host’s departure, when Upon Himself be visiting The Emperor of Men!
-Emily Dickinson
ADVENTURE most unto itself
(1) ADVENTURE most unto itself The Soul condemned to be; Attended by a Single Hound— Its own Identity.
-Emily Dickinson
One sister have I in our house
Epigram One sister have I in our house, And one a hedge away, There’s only one recorded But both belong to me. One came the way that I came And wore my past year’s gown, The other as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among. She did not sing as we did, It was a different tune, Herself to her a music As Bumble-bee of June. To-day is far from childhood But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter, Which shortened all the miles. And still her hum the years among Deceives the Butterfly, Still in her eye the Violets lie Mouldered this many May. I spilt the dew but took the morn, I chose this single star From out the wide night’s numbers, Sue—forevermore!
-Emily Dickinson