Category Emily Dickinson

I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.

I held a Jewel in my fingers— And went to sleep— The day was warm, and winds were prosy— I said “‘Twill keep”— I woke—and chid my honest fingers, The Gem was gone— And now, an Amethyst remembrance Is all…

I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still— Bear within—appalling Ordnance, Fire, and smoke, and gun, Taking Villages for breakfast, And appalling Men— If the stillness is Volcanic In the human face…

I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears— And as the Rose appears, Robin is gone. Yet do I not repine Knowing that Bird of mine Though flown— Learneth…

I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”— Bliss’ early shape Deforming—Dwindling—Gulfing up— Time’s possibility.

I had some things that I called mine— And God, that he called his, Till, recently a rival Claim Disturbed these amities. The property, my garden, Which having sown with care, He claims the pretty acre, And sends a Bailiff…

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I…