Category Emily Dickinson

We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing— ‘Tisn’t all Hock—with us— Life has its Ale— But it’s many a lay of the Dim Burgundy— We chant—for cheer—when the Wines—fail— Do we “get drunk”? Ask the jolly Clovers! Do we “beat” our…

We’ll pass without the parting So to spare Certificate of Absence— Deeming where I left Her I could find Her If I tried— This way, I keep from missing Those that died.

We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act— And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by— It intimates the finer want— Whose adequate supply Is that Great Water in the West— Termed Immortality—

We should not mind so small a flower— Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again. So spicy her Carnations nod— So drunken, reel her Bees— So silver steal a hundred flutes From…

We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday— This Morning’s finer Verdict— Makes scarcely worth the toil— A furrow—Our Cordillera— Our Apennine—a Knoll— Perhaps ’tis kindly—done us— The Anguish—and the loss— The wrenching—for His…

We pray—to Heaven— We prate—of Heaven— Relate—when Neighbors die— At what o’clock to heaven—they fled— Who saw them—Wherefore fly? Is Heaven a Place—a Sky—a Tree? Location’s narrow way is for Ourselves— Unto the Dead There’s no Geography— But State—Endowal—Focus— Where—Omnipresence—fly?

We play at Paste— Till qualified, for Pearl— Then, drop the Paste— And deem ourself a fool— The Shapes—though—were similar— And our new Hands Learned Gem-Tactics— Practicing Sands—

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.

We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society As slightly as the Routes of Stars— Ourselves—asleep below— We know that their superior Eyes Include Us—as they go—

We met as Sparks—Diverging Flints Sent various—scattered ways— We parted as the Central Flint Were cloven with an Adze— Subsisting on the Light We bore Before We felt the Dark— A Flint unto this Day—perhaps— But for that single Spark.