1. |
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by Emily Dickinson
She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —
She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel's Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —
To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.
1862
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2. |
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by: Emily Dickinson
I know some lonely houses off the road
A robber ’d like the look of,—
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to 5
A portico,
Where two could creep:
One hand the tools,
The other peep
To make sure all ’s asleep. 10
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen ’d look by night,
With just a clock,—
But they could gag the tick, 15
And mice won’t bark;
And so the walls don’t tell,
None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir—
An almanac’s aware. 20
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who ’s there.
There ’s plunder,—where? 25
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmamma,
Staid sleeping there. 30
Day rattles, too,
Stealth ’s slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer, 35
“Who ’s there?”
And echoes, trains away,
Sneer—“Where?”
While the old couple, just astir,
Think that the sunrise left the door ajar! 40
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3. |
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by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
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4. |
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by Emily Dickinson
The Doomed — regard the Sunrise
With different Delight —
Because — when next it burns abroad
They doubt to witness it —
The Man — to die — tomorrow —
Harks for the Meadow Bird —
Because its Music stirs the Axe
That clamors for his head —
Joyful — to whom the Sunrise
Precedes Enamored — Day —
Joyful — for whom the Meadow Bird
Has ought but Elegy!
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5. |
She lay as if at play
04:12
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by Emily Dickinson
She lay as if at play
Her life had leaped away—
Intending to return—
But not so soon—
Her merry Arms, half dropt—
As if for lull of sport—
An instant had forgot—
The Trick to start—
Her dancing Eyes—ajar—
As if their Owner were
Still sparkling through
For fun—at you—
Her Morning at the door—
Devising, I am sure—
To force her sleep—
So light—so deep—
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6. |
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by Emily Dickinson
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Sirocos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some—
When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—
But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.
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7. |
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by: Emily Dickinson
Pigmy seraphs gone astray,
Velvet people from Vevay,
Belles from some lost summer day,
Bees’ exclusive coterie.
Paris could not lay the fold 5
Belted down with emerald;
Venice could not show a cheek
Of a tint so lustrous meek.
Never such an ambuscade
As of brier and leaf displayed 10
For my little damask maid.
I had rather wear her grace
Than an earl’s distinguished face;
I had rather dwell like her
Than be Duke of Exeter, 15
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the bumble-bee!
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8. |
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by Emily dickinson
I cried at Pity—not at Pain—
I heard a Woman say
"Poor Child"—and something in her voice
Convinced me—of me—
So long I fainted, to myself
It seemed the common way,
And Health, and Laughter, curious things—
To look at, like a Toy—
To sometimes hear "Rich people" buy
And see the Parcel rolled—
And carried, we supposed—to Heaven,
For children, made of Gold—
But not to touch, or wish for,
Or think of, with sigh—
And so and so—had been to us,
Had God willed differently.
I wish I knew that Woman's name—
So when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears
For fear I hear her say
She's "sorry I am dead"—again—
Just when the Grave and I—
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep,
Our only Lullaby—
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9. |
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By Emily Dickinson
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
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10. |
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By Emily Dickinson
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear, when Lutes be old —
Loose the Flood—you shall find it patent—
Gush after Gush, reserved for you—
Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas!
Now, do you doubt that your Bird was True?
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