Emily Dickinson - Dickinson - The Complete Works

A book I have, a friend gave,

Whose pencil, here and there,

Had notched the place that pleased him, —

At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,

For interrupting tears

Obliterate the etchings

Too costly for repairs.

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I went to heaven, —

'T was a small town,

Lit with a ruby,

Lathed with down.

Stiller than the fields

At the full dew,

Beautiful as pictures

No man drew.

People like the moth,

Of mechlin, frames,

Duties of gossamer,

And eider names.

Almost contented

I could be

'Mong such unique

Society.

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Their height in heaven comforts not,

Their glory nought to me;

'T was 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;

If 't was a meaner size,

Then I had counted it until

It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values,

However true their show;

This timid life of evidence

Keeps pleading, "I don't know."

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There is a shame of nobleness

Confronting sudden pelf, —

A finer shame of ecstasy

Convicted of itself.

A best disgrace a brave man feels,

Acknowledged of the brave, —

One more "Ye Blessed" to be told;

But this involves the grave.

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Triumph may be of several kinds.

There 's triumph in the room

When that old imperator, Death,

By faith is overcome.

There 's triumph of the finer mind

When truth, affronted long,

Advances calm to her supreme,

Her God her only throng.

A triumph when temptation's bribe

Is slowly handed back,

One eye upon the heaven renounced

And one upon the rack.

Severer triumph, by himself

Experienced, who can pass

Acquitted from that naked bar,

Jehovah's countenance!

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Pompless no life can pass away;

The lowliest career

To the same pageant wends its way

As that exalted here.

How cordial is the mystery!

The hospitable pall

A "this way" beckons spaciously, —

A miracle for all!

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I noticed people disappeared,

When but a little child, —

Supposed they visited remote,

Or settled regions wild.

Now know I they both visited

And settled regions wild,

But did because they died, — a fact

Withheld the little child!

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I had no cause to be awake,

My best was gone to sleep,

And morn a new politeness took,

And failed to wake them up,

But called the others clear,

And passed their curtains by.

Sweet morning, when I over-sleep,

Knock, recollect, for me!

I looked at sunrise once,

And then I looked at them,

And wishfulness in me arose

For circumstance the same.

'T was such an ample peace,

It could not hold a sigh, —

'T was Sabbath with the bells divorced,

'T was sunset all the day.

So choosing but a gown

And taking but a prayer,

The only raiment I should need,

I struggled, and was there.

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If anybody's friend be dead,

It 's sharpest of the theme

The thinking how they walked alive,

At such and such a time.

Their costume, of a Sunday,

Some manner of the hair, —

A prank nobody knew but them,

Lost, in the sepulchre.

How warm they were on such a day:

You almost feel the date,

So short way off it seems; and now,

They 're centuries from that.

How pleased they were at what you said;

You try to touch the smile,

And dip your fingers in the frost:

When was it, can you tell,

You asked the company to tea,

Acquaintance, just a few,

And chatted close with this grand thing

That don't remember you?

Past bows and invitations,

Past interview, and vow,

Past what ourselves can estimate, —

That makes the quick of woe!

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Our journey had advanced;

Our feet were almost come

To that odd fork in Being's road,

Eternity by term.

Our pace took sudden awe,

Our feet reluctant led.

Before were cities, but between,

The forest of the dead.

Retreat was out of hope, —

Behind, a sealed route,

Eternity's white flag before,

And God at every gate.

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Ample make this bed.

Make this bed with awe;

In it wait till judgment break

Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,

Be its pillow round;

Let no sunrise' yellow noise

Interrupt this ground.

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On such a night, or such a night,

Would anybody care

If such a little figure

Slipped quiet from its chair,

So quiet, oh, how quiet!

That nobody might know

But that the little figure

Rocked softer, to and fro?

On such a dawn, or such a dawn,

Would anybody sigh

That such a little figure

Too sound asleep did lie

For chanticleer to wake it, —

Or stirring house below,

Or giddy bird in orchard,

Or early task to do?

There was a little figure plump

For every little knoll,

Busy needles, and spools of thread,

And trudging feet from school.

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,

And visions vast and small.

Strange that the feet so precious charged

Should reach so small a goal!

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Essential oils are wrung:

The attar from the rose

Is not expressed by suns alone,

It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays;

But this, in lady's drawer,

Makes summer when the lady lies

In ceaseless rosemary.

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I lived on dread; to those who know

The stimulus there is

In danger, other impetus

Is numb and vital-less.

As 't were a spur upon the soul,

A fear will urge it where

To go without the spectre's aid

Were challenging despair.

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If I should die,

And you should live,

And time should gurgle on,

And morn should beam,

And noon should burn,

As it has usual done;

If birds should build as early,

And bees as bustling go, —

One might depart at option

From enterprise below!

'T is sweet to know that stocks will stand

When we with daisies lie,

That commerce will continue,

And trades as briskly fly.

It makes the parting tranquil

And keeps the soul serene,

That gentlemen so sprightly

Conduct the pleasing scene!

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Her final summer was it,

And yet we guessed it not;