All Poems
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His Bill an Auger is
© Emily Dickinson
His Bill an Auger is
His Head, a Cap and Frill
He laboreth at every Tree
A Worm, His utmost Goal.
High from the earth I heard a bird,
© Emily Dickinson
High from the earth I heard a bird,
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
Herein a Blossom lies --
© Emily Dickinson
Herein a Blossom lies --
A Sepulchre, between --
Cross it, and overcome the Bee --
Remain -- 'tis but a Rind.
Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
© Emily Dickinson
Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
'Tis easiest to lie
And every Grass that plays outside
Is sorry, some, for me.
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
© Emily Dickinson
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie --
When, stirring, for Belief's delight,
My Bride had slipped away --
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
© Emily Dickinson
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way --
Carriages -- Be Sure -- and Guests -- too --
But for Holiday
Her spirit rose to such a height
© Emily Dickinson
Her spirit rose to such a height
Her countenance it did inflate
Like one that fed on awe.
More prudent to assault the dawn
Than merit the ethereal scorn
That effervesced from her.
Her sovereign People
© Emily Dickinson
Her sovereign People
Nature knows as well
And is as fond of signifying
As if fallible --
Her smile was shaped like other smiles --
© Emily Dickinson
Her smile was shaped like other smiles --
The Dimples ran along --
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Her Losses make our Gains ashamed --
© Emily Dickinson
Her Losses make our Gains ashamed --
She bore Life's empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Her little Parasol to lift
© Emily Dickinson
Her little Parasol to lift
And once to let it down
Her whole Responsibility --
To imitate be Mine.
Her Grace is all she has --
© Emily Dickinson
Her Grace is all she has --
And that, so least displays --
One Art to recognize, must be,
Another Art, to praise.
Her final Summer was it --
© Emily Dickinson
Her final Summer was it --
And yet We guessed it not --
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought
He went by sleep that drowsy route
© Emily Dickinson
He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn --
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain --
He was weak, and I was strong -- then
© Emily Dickinson
He was weak, and I was strong -- then --
So He let me lead him in --
I was weak, and He was strong then --
So I let him lead me -- Home.
He was my host -- he was my guest,
© Emily Dickinson
He was my host -- he was my guest,
I never to this day
If I invited him could tell,
Or he invited me.
He touched me, so I live to know
© Emily Dickinson
He touched me, so I live to know
That such a day, permitted so,
I groped upon his breast --
It was a boundless place to me
And silenced, as the awful sea
Puts minor streams to rest.
He told a homely tale
© Emily Dickinson
He told a homely tale
And spotted it with tears --
Upon his infant face was set
The Cicatrice of years --
He strained my faith
© Emily Dickinson
He strained my faith --
Did he find it supple?
Shook my strong trust --
Did it then -- yield?
He scanned it -- staggered --
© Emily Dickinson
He scanned it -- staggered --
Dropped the Loop
To Past or Period --
Caught helpless at a sense as if
His Mind were going blind --
