Category Emily Dickinson

By my Window have I for Scenery Just a Sea—with a Stem— If the Bird and the Farmer—deem it a “Pine”— The Opinion will serve—for them—   It has no Port, nor a “Line”—but the Jays— That split their route…

By a flower—By a letter— By a nimble love— If I weld the Rivet faster— Final fast—above—   Never mind my breathless Anvil! Never mind Repose! Never mind the sooty faces Tugging at the Forge!

But little Carmine hath her face— Of Emerald scant—her Gown— Her Beauty—is the love she doth— Itself—exhibit—Mine—

Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps— Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadth of blue!   Write me…

Bound—a trouble— And lives can bear it! Limit—how deep a bleeding go! So—many—drops—of vital scarlet— Deal with the soul As with Algebra!   Tell it the Ages—to a cypher— And it will ache—contented—on— Sing—at its pain—as any Workman— Notching the…