Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete

 
    Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
    A wind with fingers goes.
 
 
They perished in the seamless grass, —
    No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
    Can summon every face.
 

X

 
The only ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in mechlin, – so;
He wore no sandal on his foot,
And stepped like flakes of snow.
His gait was soundless, like the bird,
But rapid, like the roe;
His fashions quaint, mosaic,
Or, haply, mistletoe.
 
 
His conversation seldom,
His laughter like the breeze
That dies away in dimples
Among the pensive trees.
Our interview was transient,—
Of me, himself was shy;
And God forbid I look behind
Since that appalling day!
 

XI

 
Some, too fragile for winter winds,
The thoughtful grave encloses, —
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.
 
 
Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look
And sportsman is not bold.
 
 
This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold, —
Sparrows unnoticed by the Father;
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
 

XII

 
As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear,
As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, —
 
 
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes!
 

XIII

MEMORIALS

 
Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly
 
 
To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With "This was last her fingers did,"
Industrious until
 
 
The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then 't was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.
 
 
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.
 

XIV

 
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.
 

XV

 
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."
 

XVI

 
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.
 

XVII

TRIUMPH

 
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!
 

XVIII

 
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!
 

XIX

 
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!
 

XX

FOLLOWING

 
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.
 

XXI

 
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!
 

XXII

THE JOURNEY

 
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.
 

XXIII

A COUNTRY BURIAL

 
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.
 

XXIV

GOING

 
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!
 

XXV

 
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.
 

XXVI

 
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.
 

XXVII

 
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!
 

XXVIII

AT LENGTH

 
Her final summer was it,
And yet we guessed it not;
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded her, we thought
 
 
A further force of life
Developed from within, —
When Death lit all the shortness up,
And made the hurry plain.
 
 
We wondered at our blindness, —
When nothing was to see
But her Carrara guide-post, —
At our stupidity,
 
 
When, duller than our dulness,
The busy darling lay,
So busy was she, finishing,
So leisurely were we!
 

XXIX

GHOSTS

 
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
 
 
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
 
 
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.
 
 
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.
 
 
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.
 

XXX

VANISHED

 
She died, – this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
 
 
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
 

XXXI

PRECEDENCE

 
Wait till the majesty of Death
Invests so mean a brow!
Almost a powdered footman
Might dare to touch it now!
 
 
Wait till in everlasting robes
This democrat is dressed,
Then prate about "preferment"
And "station" and the rest!
 
 
Around this quiet courtier
Obsequious angels wait!
Full royal is his retinue,
Full purple is his state!
 
 
A lord might dare to lift the hat
To such a modest clay,
Since that my Lord, "the Lord of lords"
Receives unblushingly!
 

XXXII

GONE

 
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravos
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful, as to the village,
Tranquil, as to repose,
Chastened, as to the chapel,
This humble tourist rose.
Did not talk of returning,
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious,
We might look for him;
Was grateful for the roses
In life's diverse bouquet,
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day.
 
 
Beguiling thus the wonder,
The wondrous nearer drew;
Hands bustled at the moorings —
The crowd respectful grew.
Ascended from our vision
To countenances new!
A difference, a daisy,
Is all the rest I knew!
 

XXXIII

REQUIEM

 
Taken from men this morning,
Carried by men to-day,
Met by the gods with banners
Who marshalled her away.
 
 
One little maid from playmates,
One little mind from school, —
There must be guests in Eden;
All the rooms are full.
 
 
Far as the east from even,
Dim as the border star, —
Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,
Our departed are.
 

XXXIV

 
What inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar traveller comes?
Who is the landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth,
No brimming tankards flow.
Necromancer, landlord,
Who are these below?
 

XXXV

 
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 siroccos 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 't was 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.
 

XXXVI

TILL THE END

 
I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because – because if he should die
While I was gone, and I – too late —
Should reach the heart that wanted me;
 
 
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me – they noticed me;
 
 
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I 'd come – so sure I 'd come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name, —
 
 
My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning's sun,
Where midnight frosts had lain!
 

XXXVII

VOID

 
Great streets of silence led away
To neighborhoods of pause;
Here was no notice, no dissent,
No universe, no laws.
 
 
By clocks 't was morning, and for night
The bells at distance called;
But epoch had no basis here,
For period exhaled.
 

XXXVIII

 
A throe upon the features
A hurry in the breath,
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated "Death," —
 
 
An anguish at the mention,
Which, when to patience grown,
I 've known permission given
To rejoin its own.
 

XXXIX

SAVED!

 
Of tribulation these are they
Denoted by the white;
The spangled gowns, a lesser rank
Of victors designate.
 
 
All these did conquer; but the ones
Who overcame most times
Wear nothing commoner than snow,
No ornament but palms.
 
 
Surrender is a sort unknown
On this superior soil;
Defeat, an outgrown anguish,
Remembered as the mile
 
 
Our panting ankle barely gained
When night devoured the road;
But we stood whispering in the house,
And all we said was "Saved"!
 

XL

 
I think just how my shape will rise
When I shall be forgiven,
Till hair and eyes and timid head
Are out of sight, in heaven.
 
 
I think just how my lips will weigh
With shapeless, quivering prayer
That you, so late, consider me,
The sparrow of your care.
 
 
I mind me that of anguish sent,
Some drifts were moved away
Before my simple bosom broke, —
And why not this, if they?
 
 
And so, until delirious borne
I con that thing, – "forgiven," —
Till with long fright and longer trust
I drop my heart, unshriven!
 

XLI

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE

 
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place, —
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
 
 
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
 
 
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way, —
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
 

XLII

 
Lay this laurel on the one
Too intrinsic for renown.
Laurel! veil your deathless tree, —
Him you chasten, that is he!