A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Just so — Jesus — raps –
He — doesn’t weary –
Last — at the Knocker –
And first — at the Bell.
Then — on divinest tiptoe — standing –
Might He but spy the lady’s soul –
When He — retires –
Chilled — or weary –
It will be ample time for — me –
Patient — upon the steps — until then –
Hears! I am knocking — low at thee.
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The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard — today –
Further than that –
Nor stop to play with the Hay –
Nor joggle a Hat –
He’s a transitive fellow — very –
Rely on that –
If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir –
But the Fir is Where — Declare –
Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers –
And that is His business — not Ours –
Then He has been with the Mowers –
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay –
His Way — of a June Day –
If He fling Sand, and Pebble –
Little Boys Hats — and Stubble –
With an occasional Steeple –
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you — Say –
Would you be the fool to stay?
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Nature — sometimes sears a Sapling –
Sometimes — scalps a Tree –
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die –
Fainter Leaves — to Further Seasons –
Dumbly testify –
We — who have the Souls –
Die oftener — Not so vitally –
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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 Savior — Crucify –
Defeat — whets Victory — they say –
The Reefs — in old Gethsemane –
Endear the Coast — beyond!
‘Tis Beggars — Banquets — can define –
‘Tis Parching — vitalizes Wine –
“Faith” bleats — to understand!
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Her — “last Poems” –
Poets — ended –
Silver — perished — with her Tongue –
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman –
So divine –
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune –
Gushed too free for the Adoring –
From the Anglo-Florentine –
Late — the Praise –
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown –
Diadem — or Ducal Showing –
Be its Grave — sufficient sign –
Nought — that We — No Poet’s Kinsman –
Suffocate — with easy woe –
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom –
Put Her down — in Italy?
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It sifts from Leaden Sieves –
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road –
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain –
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again –
It reaches to the Fence –
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces –
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack — and Stem –
A Summer’s empty Room –
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them–
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen –
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts –
Denying they have been –
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Give little Anguish –
Lives will fret –
Give Avalanches –
And they’ll slant –
Straighten — look cautious for their Breath –
But make no syllable — like Death –
Who only shows the Marble Disc –
Sublimer sort — than Speech –
Tags: anguish, avalaches, breath, cautious, death, disc, fret, little, lives, marble, slant, speech, straighten, sublimer, syllable
