Category Emily Dickinson

This dirty — little — Heart Is freely mine. I won it with a Bun — A Freckled shrine — But eligibly fair To him who sees The Visage of the Soul And not the knees.

They talk as slow as Legends grow No mushroom is their mind But foliage of sterility Too stolid for the wind — They laugh as wise as Plots of Wit Predestined to unfold The point with bland prevision Portentously untold.

To him who keeps an Orchis’ heart – The swamps are pink with June.

They might not need me but; they might. I’ll let my Head be just in sight; A smile as small as mine might be Precisely their necessity.

These Strangers, in a foreign World, Protection asked of me — Befriend them, lest Yourself in Heaven Be found a Refugee —

These held their Wick above the West — Till when the Red declined — Or how the Amber aided it — Defied to be defined — Then waned without disparagement In a dissembling Hue That would not let the Eye…

These Fevered Days — to take them to the Forest Where Waters cool around the mosses crawl — And shade is all that devastates the stillness Seems it sometimes this would be all —

These are the Signs to Nature’s Inns — Her invitation broad To Whosoever famishing To taste her mystic Bread — These are the rites of Nature’s House — The Hospitality That opens with an equal width To Beggar and to…

These are the Nights that Beetles love — From Eminence remote Drives ponderous perpendicular His figure intimate The terror of the Children The merriment of men Depositing his Thunder He hoists abroad again — A Bomb upon the Ceiling Is…

These are the days that Reindeer love And pranks the Northern star — This is the Sun’s objective, And Finland of the Year.