Emily Dickinson – Selected Poems (3)



[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 speech was like the push
Of numerous hummingbirds at once
From a superior bush.

His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped–’twas flurriedly—
And I became alone.

-Emily Dickinson – Selected Poems


Emily Dickinson – Selected Poems (2)

Nature 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 my head I felt,
About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch,-
This gave me that precarious gait
Some call experience.

_ From Emily Dickinson Selected Poems


Emily Dickinson- Selected Poems (1)

A Claude  Monet painting
A Claude Monet painting

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.
* * * * * *
We outgrow love like other things
And put it in the drawer,
Till it an antique fashion shows
Like costumes grandsires wore.
– – – – – – – –
The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend,—
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.

Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.
* * * * * *
Emily Dickinson