Category Emily Dickinson

The only ghost I ever saw Was dressed in mechlin, –so; He wore no sandal on his foot, And stepped like flakes of snow. His gait was soundless, like the bird, But rapid, like the roe; His fashions quaint, mosaic,…

The One who could repeat the Summer day— Were greater than itself—though He Minutest of Mankind should be— And He—could reproduce the Sun— At period of going down— The Lingering—and the Stain—I mean— When Orient have been outgrown And Occident—become…

The Night was wide, and furnished scant With but a single Star— That often as a Cloud it met— Blew out itself—for fear— The Wind pursued the little Bush— And drove away the Leaves November left—then clambered up And fretted…

The nearest Dream recedes—unrealized— The Heaven we chase, Like the June Bee—before the School Boy, Invites the Race— Stoops—to an easy Clover— Dips—evades—teases—deploys— Then—to the Royal Clouds Lifts his light Pinnace— Heedless of the Boy— Staring—bewildered—at the mocking sky— Homesick…

The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road— Great Globules—in the Alleys— And Oh, the Shower of Stain— When Winds—upset the Basin— And spill the Scarlet Rain— It sprinkles Bonnets—far below— It…

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of…

The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ‘Twere easier to die— Than tell— The Red upon the Hill Taketh away my will— If anybody sneer— Take care—for God is here— That’s all. The Breaking…

The Mountains—grow unnoticed— Their Purple figures rise Without attempt—Exhaustion— Assistance—or Applause— In Their Eternal Faces The Sun—with just delight Looks long—and last—and golden— For fellowship—at night—

The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere— The Seasons played around his knees Like Children round a sire— Grandfather of the Days is He Of Dawn, the Ancestor—

The morns are meeker than they were— The nuts are getting brown— The berry’s cheek is plumper— The Rose is out of town. The Maple wears a gayer scarf— The field a scarlet gown— Lest I should be old fashioned…