Category Emily Dickinson

There is a pain—so utter— It swallows substance up— Then covers the Abyss with Trance— So Memory can step Around—across—upon it— As one within a Swoon— Goes safely—where an open eye— Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.

There is a morn by men unseen— Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May— And all day long, with dance and game, And gambol I may never name— Employ their holiday. Here to light measure, move the feet…

There is a Languor of the Life More imminent than Pain— ‘Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul Has suffered all it can— A Drowsiness—diffuses— A Dimness like a Fog Envelops Consciousness— As Mists—obliterate a Crag. The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain His…

There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed As should a Face supposed the Grave’s Emerge a single Noon In the Vermilion that it wore Affect…

There is a flower that Bees prefer— And Butterflies—desire— To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird—aspire— And Whatsoever Insect pass— A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her—capacity— Her face be rounder than the Moon And…

There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size. By Death’s bold Exhibition Preciser what we are And the Eternal function Enabled to infer.

There cam a Wind like a Bugle – It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doors As from an Emerald Ghost – The Doom’s electric…

There came a Day at Summer’s full, Entirely for me— I thought that such were for the Saints, Where Resurrections—be— The Sun, as common, went abroad, The flowers, accustomed, blew, As if no soul the solstice passed That maketh all…

There are two Ripenings—one—of sight— Whose forces Spheric wind Until the Velvet product Drop spicy to the ground— A homelier maturing— A process in the Bur— That teeth of Frosts alone disclose In far October Air.

Their Height in Heaven comforts not— Their Glory—nought to me— ‘Twas best imperfect—as it was— I’m finite—I can’t see— The House of Supposition— The Glimmering Frontier that Skirts the Acres of Perhaps— To Me—shows insecure— The Wealth I had—contented me—…