Poems (Series 2) / by Emily Dickinson [electronic text]

I.
LIFE.

POEMS.

I.

I 'M nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there 's a pair of us — don't tell! They 'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

II.

I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.

Crackling with fever, they essay; I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy glass; The lips I would have cooled, alas! Are so superfluous cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould.

Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak.

And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake, —

If, haply, any say to me, "Unto the little, unto me," When I at last awake.

III.

THE nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover — Dips — evades — teases — deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety;

IV.

WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar, And our new hands Learned gem-tactics Practising sands.

V.

I FOUND the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, — as a hand Did try to chalk the sun

To races nurtured in the dark; — How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

VI.
HOPE.

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.

VII.
THE WHITE HEAT.

DARE you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire's common tint; But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame's conditions, Its quivering substance plays Without a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil's even din Stands symbol for the finer forge That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores With hammer and with blaze, Until the designated light Repudiate the forge.

VIII.
TRIUMPHANT.

WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.

Who never climbed the weary league — Can such a foot explore The purple territories On Pizarro's shore?

How many legions overcome? The emperor will say. How many colors taken On Revolution Day?

How many bullets bearest? The royal scar hast thou? Angels, write "Promoted" On this soldier's brow!

IX.
THE TEST.

I CAN wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I 'm used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip — drunken. Let no pebble smile, 'T was the new liquor, —That was all!

Power is only pain, Stranded, through discipline, Till weights will hang. Give balm to giants, And they 'll wilt, like men. Give Himmaleh, — They 'll carry him!

X.
ESCAPE.

I NEVER hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.

I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars, — Only to fail again!

XI.
COMPENSATION.

FOR each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years, Bitter contested farthings And coffers heaped with tears.

XII.
THE MARTYRS.

THROUGH the straight pass of suffering The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God.

A stately, shriven company; Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor Upon a planet's bound.

Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air.

XIII.
A PRAYER.

I MEANT to have but modest needs, Such as content, and heaven; Within my income these could lie, And life and I keep even.

But since the last included both, It would suffice my prayer But just for one to stipulate, And grace would grant the pair.

And so, upon this wise I prayed, — Great Spirit, give to me A heaven not so large as yours, But large enough for me.

A smile suffused Jehovah's face; The cherubim withdrew; Grave saints stole out to look at me, And showed their dimples, too.

I left the place with all my might, — My prayer away I threw; The quiet ages picked it up, And Judgment twinkled, too,

That one so honest be extant As take the tale for true That "Whatsoever you shall ask, Itself be given you."

But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies With a suspicious air, — As children, swindled for the first, All swindlers be, infer.

XIV.

THE thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, — As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

XV.

THE soul unto itselfIs 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.

XVI.

SURGEONS must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the culprit, — Life!

XVII.
THE RAILWAY TRAIN.

I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a quarry pare.

To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop — docile and omnipotent — At its own stable door.

XVIII.
THE SHOW.

THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play — Both went to see.

XIX.

DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain, — More fair, because impossible That any gain.

The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little, — And that 's the skies!

XX.

A THOUGHT went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish, — some way back, I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came The second time to me, Nor definitely what it was, Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know I 've met the thing before; It just reminded me — 't was all — And came my way no more.

XXI.

IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.

Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I 'm not a party to.

XXII.
THE RETURN.

THOUGH I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony!

To think just how the fire will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!

XXIII.

A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west, Nor noticed night did soft descend Nor constellation burn, Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown.

The angels, happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God. There, — sandals for the barefoot; There, — gathered from the gales, Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering sails.

XXIV.
TOO MUCH.

I SHOULD have been too glad, I see, Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round; My little circuit would have shamed This new circumference, have blamed The homelier time behind.

I should have been too saved, I see, Too rescued; fear too dim to me That I could spell the prayer I knew so perfect yesterday, — That scalding one, "Sabachthani," Recited fluent here.

Earth would have been too much, I see, And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, — The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.

Defeat whets victory, they say; The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the shore beyond. 'T is beggars banquets best define; 'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, — Faith faints to understand.

XXV.
SHIPWRECK.

IT tossed and tossed, — A little brig I knew, — O'ertook by blast, It spun and spun, And groped delirious, for morn.

It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight.

Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.

XXVI.

VICTORY comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table 's spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe. Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle's golden breakfast Strangles them. God keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve!

XXVII.
ENOUGH.

GOD gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, — My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the feat That made the pellet mine, — Too happy in my sparrow chance For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair. I wonder how the rich may feel, — An Indiaman — an Earl? I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.

XXVIII.

EXPERIMENT to me Is every one I meet. If it contain a kernel? The figure of a nut

Presents upon a tree, Equally plausibly; But meat within is requisite, To squirrels and to me.

XXIX.
MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE.

MY country need not change her gown, Her triple suit as sweet As when 't was cut at Lexington, And first pronounced "a fit."

Great Britain disapproves "the stars;" Disparagement discreet, — There 's something in their attitude That taunts her bayonet.

XXX.

FAITH is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!

XXXI.

EXCEPT the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so; I had not hoped before.

But just to hear the grace depart I never thought to see, Afflicts me with a double loss; 'T is lost, and lost to me.

XXXII.

PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.

XXXIII.
THE DUEL.

I TOOK my power in my hand. And went against the world; 'T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold.

I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?

XXXIV.

A SHADY friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.

The vane a little to the east Scares muslin souls away; If broadcloth breasts are firmer Than those of organdy,

Who is to blame? The weaver? Ah! the bewildering thread! The tapestries of paradise So notelessly are made!

XXXV.
THE GOAL.

EACH life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be, Too fair For credibility's temerity To dare.

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven, To reach Were hopeless as the rainbow's raiment To touch,

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance; How high Unto the saints' slow diligence The sky!

Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture, But then, Eternity enables the endeavoring Again.

XXXVI.
SIGHT.

BEFORE I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes, And know no other way.

But were it told to me, to-day, That I might have the sky For mine, I tell you that my heart Would split, for size of me.

The meadows mine, the mountains mine, — All forests, stintless stars, As much of noon as I could take Between my finite eyes.

The motions of the dipping birds, The lightning's jointed road, For mine to look at when I liked, — The news would strike me dead!

So safer, guess, with just my soul Upon the window-pane Where other creatures put their eyes, Incautious of the sun.

XXXVII.

TALK with prudence to a beggar Of 'Potosi' and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!

Cautious, hint to any captive You have passed enfranchised feet! Anecdotes of air in dungeons Have sometimes proved deadly sweet!

XXXVIII.
THE PREACHER.

HE preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow,— The broad are too broad to define; And of "truth" until it proclaimed him a liar, — The truth never flaunted a sign.

Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence As gold the pyrites would shun. What confusion would cover the innocent Jesus To meet so enabled a man!

XXXIX.

GOOD night! which put the candle out? A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent; Extinguished, now, for you!

It might have been the lighthouse spark Some sailor, rowing in the dark, Had importuned to see! It might have been the waning lamp That lit the drummer from the camp To purer reveille!

XL.

WHEN I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain; Spectre cannot harm, Serpent cannot charm; He deposes doom, Who hath suffered him.

XLI.
DEED.

A DEED knocks first at thought, And then it knocks at will. That is the manufacturing spot, And will at home and well.

It then goes out an act, Or is entombed so still That only to the ear of God Its doom is audible.

XLII.
TIME'S LESSON.

MINE enemy is growing old, — I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, —

Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; 'T is starving makes it fat.

XLIII.
REMORSE.

REMORSE is memory awake, Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts At window and at door.

It 's past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, — the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is his institution, — The complement of hell.

XLIV.
THE SHELTER.

THE body grows outside, —The more convenient way, —That if the spirit like to hide, Its temple stands alway

Ajar, secure, inviting; It never did betray The soul that asked its shelter In timid honesty.

XLV.

UNDUE significance a starving man attaches To food Far off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless, And therefore good.

Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us That spices fly In the receipt. It was the distance Was savory.

XLVI.

HEART not so heavy as mine, Wending late home, As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune, —

A careless snatch, a ballad, A ditty of the street; Yet to my irritated ear An anodyne so sweet,

It was as if a bobolink, Sauntering this way, Carolled and mused and carolled, Then bubbled slow away.

It was as if a chirping brook Upon a toilsome way Set bleeding feet to minuets Without the knowing why.

To-morrow, night will come again, Weary, perhaps, and sore. Ah, bugle, by my window, I pray you stroll once more!

XLVII.

I MANY times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea,

And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.

XLVIII.

UNTO my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.

XLIX.

THIS merit hath the worst, —It cannot be again. When Fate hath taunted last And thrown her furthest stone,

The maimed may pause and breathe, And glance securely round. The deer invites no longer Than it eludes the hound.

L.
HUNGER.

I HAD been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread, 'T was so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, — Myself felt ill and odd, As berry of a mountain bush Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry; so I found That hunger was a way Of persons outside windows, The entering takes away.

LI.

I GAINED it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.

I said I gained it, — This was all. Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall, And I a pauper go; Unfitted by an instant's grace For the contented beggar's face I wore an hour ago.

LII.

TO learn the transport by the pain, As blind men learn the sun; To die of thirst, suspecting That brooks in meadows run;

To stay the homesick, homesick feet Upon a foreign shore Haunted by native lands, the while, And blue, beloved air —

This is the sovereign anguish, This, the signal woe! These are the patient laureates Whose voices, trained below,

Ascend in ceaseless carol, Inaudible, indeed, To us, the duller scholars Of the mysterious bard!

LIII.
RETURNING.

I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.

LIV.
PRAYER.

PRAYER is the little implement Through which men reach Where presence is denied them. They fling their speech

By means of it in God's ear; If then He hear, This sums the apparatus Comprised in prayer.

LV.

I KNOW that he exists Somewhere, in silence. He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.

'T is an instant's play, 'T is a fond ambush, Just to make bliss Earn her own surprise!

But should the play Prove piercing earnest, Should the glee glaze In death's stiff stare,

Would not the fun Look too expensive? Would not the jest Have crawled too far?

LVI.
MELODIES UNHEARD.

MUSICIANS wrestle everywhere: All day, among the crowded air, I hear the silver strife; And — waking long before the dawn — Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that "new life!"

It is not bird, it has no nest; Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed, Nor tambourine, nor man; It is not hymn from pulpit read, — The morning stars the treble led On time's first afternoon!

Some say it is the spheres at play! Some say that bright majority Of vanished dames and men! Some think it service in the place Where we, with late, celestial face, Please God, shall ascertain!

LVII.
CALLED BACK.

JUST lost when I was saved! Just felt the world go by! Just girt me for the onset with eternity, When breath blew back, And on the other side I heard recede the disappointed tide!

Therefore, as one returned, I feel, Odd secrets of the line to tell! Some sailor, skirting foreign shores, Some pale reporter from the awful doors Before the seal!

Next time, to stay! Next time, the things to see By ear unheard, Unscrutinized by eye.

Next time, to tarry, While the ages steal, — Slow tramp the centuries, And the cycles wheel.