Emily Dickinson

The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune – Because I grow – where Robins do – But, were I Cuckoo born – I’d swear by him – The ode familiar – rules the Noon – The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom – Because, we’re Orchard sprung – But, were I Britain born, I’d Daisies spurn – None but the Nut – October fit – Because, through dropping it, The Seasons flit – I’m taught – Without the Snow’s Tableau Winter, were lie – to me – Because I had not seen it go – But, this – makes not the Robin poor – Nor, of the Nut, deprive the Jay – Because the seasons flit away –

A Route of Evanescence With a revolving Wheel – A Resonance of Emerald – A Rush of Cochineal – And every Blossom on the Bush Adjusts its tumbled Head – The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy Morning’s Ride –

I reckon – when I count at all – First – Poets – Then the Sun – Then Summer – Then the Heaven of God – And then – the List is done –

The feet of people that’s dead – Can’t go before the feet of people that’s living –

Surprise is like a thrilling – sudden – Savor – Which God has somewhere hidden – In every thing –

I had been hungry, all the Years – My Noon had Come – to dine – I trembling drew the Table near – And touched the Curious Wine –

The World feels Dusty When We stop to Die – We want the Dew – then – Honors – taste dry – Flags – vex a Dying face – But the least Fan Stirred by a friend’s Hand – Cools – like the Rain –

I started Early – Took my Dog – And walked into the Sea – And which was farther off from me The Sea, or the Sea, or the Sea –

The Doomed – regard the Sunrise With different Delight – Because – when next it burns abroad They doubt to witness it –

I tie my Hat – I crease my Shawl – Life’s little duties do – precisely – As the very least Were infinite to me –

To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing – Or only a divine.

I’m wife to your career – and care – Then my supremacy of none – be told.

The Dew came down upon the world So clear – so cold – so fair – It fell like tears upon the earth – And woke the sleeping flowers.

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom – What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot – The opening of a Door –

I cannot dance upon my Toes – No Man instructed me – But oftentimes, among my mind, A Glee possesseth me, That had I Ballet knowledge – Would put itself abroad In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe – Or lay a Prima, mad,

The difference between Despair And Fear – is like the One Between the instant of a Wreck – And when the Wreck has been –

I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel a bliss In which you yet repose.

The Soul that hath a Guest Doth seldom go abroad – Diviner Crowd at Home – Obliterate the need –

I’m sorry for the Dead – they are so still – But I’m more sorry for the Living – they are so alive.

What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot— The opening of a Door.