After Great Pain After great pain a formal feeling comes- The Nerves sit ceremonious like Tombs; The stiff heart questions- was it He that bore And Yesterday- or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought, Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone. This is the…
Read More[Emily Dickinson’s House, now a Museum] The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, “Come in,” I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air. No bone had he to bind him, His…
Read MoreNature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,- Prodigal blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. . . . . . . . . . . I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The Stars about…
Read More“ Poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise conveyed.” -Thomas Wentworth Higginson on her poetry. A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day. * * * *…
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