Emily Dickinson

«My Wheel is in the dark! | I cannot see a spoke | Yet know it's dripping feet | Go round and round. | My foot is on the Tide! | An unfrequented road - | Yet have all roads | A clearing at the end - | | Some have resigned the Loom - | Some in the busy tomb | Find quaint employ - | | Some with new - stately feet - | Pass royal thro' the gate - | Flinging the problem back | At you and I!»

«This heart that broke so long - | These feet that never flagged - | This faith that watched for star in vain, | Give gently to the dead - | Hound cannot overtake the Hare | That fluttered panting, here - | Nor any schoolboy rob the nest | Tenderness builded there.»

«The morns are meeker than they were - | The nuts are getting brown - | The berry's cheek is plumper - | The Rose is out of town. | The Maple wears a gayer scarf - | The field a scarlet gown - | Lest I should be old fashioned | I'll put a trinket on.»

«Sleep is supposed to be | By souls of sanity - | The shutting of the eye. | Sleep is the station grand | Down wh'on either hand - | The Hosts of Witness stand! | | Morn is supposed to be | By people of degree - | The breaking of the Day! | | Morning has not occurred! | | That shall Aurora be | East of Eternity! | One with the banner gay, | One in the red array - | That is the break of Day!»

«I would distil a cup - | and bear to all my friends, | drinking to her no more astir, | by beck, or burn, or moor!»

«The Guest is gold and crimson - | An Opal guest, and gray - | Of Ermine is his doublet - | His Capuchin gay - | He reaches town at nightfall - | He stops at every door - | Who looks for him at morning | I pray him too - explore | The Lark's pure territory - | Or the Lapwing's shore»

«Bless God, he went as soldiers, | His musket on his breast - | Grant God, he charge the bravest | Of all the martial blest! | Please God, might I behold him | In epauletted white - | I should not fear the foe then - | I should not fear the fight»

«She went as quiet as the Dew | From an accustomed flower. | Not like the Dew, did she return | At the accustomed hour! | She dropt as softly as a star | From out my summer's eve - | Less skillful than Le Verriere | It's sorer to believe.»

«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.»

«On this wondrous sea | Sailing silently, | Ho! Pilot, ho! | Knowest thou the shore | Where no breakers roar - | Where the storm is o'er? | In the peaceful west | Many the sails at rest - | The anchors fast - | Thither I pilot thee - | Land Ho! Eternity! | Ashore at last»

«Frequently the woods are pink - | Frequently are brown. | Frequently the hills undress | Behind my native town. | Oft a head is crested | I was wont to see - | And as oft a cranny | Where it used to be - | And the Earth - they tell me - | On it's axis turned! | Wonderful Rotation! | By but twelve performed!»

«For every Bird a nest - | Wherefore in timid quest | Some little Wren goes seeking round - | Wherefore when boughs are free, | Households in every tree, | Pilgrim be found? | | Perhaps a home too high - | Ah aristocracy! | The little Wren desires - | | Perhaps of twig so fine - | Of twine e'en superfine, | Her pride aspires - | | The Lark is not ashamed | To build upon the ground | Her modest house - | | Yet who of all the throng | Dancing around the sun | Does so rejoice?»

«Flowers - Well - if anybody | Can the extasy define - | Half a transport - half a trouble - | With which flowers humble men: | Anybody find the fountain | From which floods so contra flow - | I will give him all the Daisies | Which upon the hillside blow. | Too much pathos in their faces | For a simple breast like mine - | Butterflies from St Domingo | Cruising round the purple line - | Have a system of aesthetics - | Far superior to mine.»

«Soul, Wilt thou toss again? | By just such a hazard | Hundreds have lost indeed - | But tens have won an all - | Angel's breathless ballot | Lingers to record thee - | Imps in eager caucus | Raffle for my soul»

«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, | Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father - | Lambs for whom time had not a fold.»

«To fight aloud, is very brave - | But gallanter, I know | Who charge within the bosom | The Cavalry of Woe - | Who win, and nations do not see - | Who fall - and none observe - | Whose dying eyes, no Country | Regards with patriot love - | | We trust, in plumed procession | For such, the Angels go - | Rank after Rank, with even feet - | And Uniforms of snow»

«"Houses" - so the Wise men tell me - | "Mansions"! Mansions must be warm! | Mansions cannot let the tears in - | Mansions must exclude the storm! | "Many Mansions", by "his Father" - | I don't know him; snugly built! | Could the children find the way there - | Some, would even trudge tonight»

«As Watchers hang upon the East - | As Beggars revel at a feast | By savory fancy spread - | As Brooks in Deserts, babble sweet | On Ear too far for the delight - | Heaven beguiles the tired. | As that same Watcher, when the East | Opens the lid of Amethyst | And lets the morning go - | That Beggar, when an honored Guest - | Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed - | Heaven to us, if true.»

«Cocoon above! Cocoon below! | Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so | What all the world suspect? | An hour, and gay on every tree | Your secret, perched in extasy | Defies imprisonment! | An hour in chrysalis to pass - | Then gay above receding grass | A Butterfly to go! | A moment to interrogate, | Then wiser than a "Surrogate," | The Universe to know»

«Besides the Autumn poets sing | A few prosaic days | A little this side of the snow | And that side of the Haze - | A few incisive mornings - | A few Ascetic eves - | Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" - | And Mr Thomson's "sheaves." | | Still, is the bustle in the Brook - | Sealed are the spicy valves - | Mesmeric fingers softly touch | The Eyes of many Elves - | | Perhaps a squirrel may remain - | My sentiments to share - | Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind - | Thy windy will to bea»