Daily Dickinson

The Juggler’s Hat her Country is –

Michael Hartford — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 12:36:07 +0000

The Juggler’s Hat her Country is –
The Mountain Gorse — the Bee’s!

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So glad we are — a Stranger’d deem

Michael Hartford — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:36:03 +0000

So glad we are — a Stranger’d deem
‘Twas sorry, that we were –
For where the Holiday should be
There publishes a Tear –
Nor how Ourselves be justified –
Since Grief and Joy are done
So similar — An Optizan
Could not decide between –

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Before I got my eye put out

Michael Hartford — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 12:36:28 +0000

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 — Today –
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 Morning’s Amber 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 –

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I cannot dance upon my Toes –

Michael Hartford — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 12:36:06 +0000

I cannot dance upon my Toes –
No Man instructed me –
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge –
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe –
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze –
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences — like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so –

Nor any know I know the Art
I mention — easy — Here –
Nor any Placard boast me –
It’s full as Opera –

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Of Tribulation, these are They

Michael Hartford — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 12:36:34 +0000

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 passed –
When Night devoured the Road –
But we — stood whispering in the House –
And all we said — was “Saved”!

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As if I asked a common Alms

Michael Hartford — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 12:36:23 +0000

As if I asked a common Alms,
And in my wondering hand
A Stranger pressed a Kingdom,
And I, bewildered, stand –
As if I asked the Orient
Had it for me a Morn –
And it should lift its purple Dikes,
And shatter me with Dawn!

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There came a Day at Summer’s full

Michael Hartford — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 12:36:19 +0000

There came a Day at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me –
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections — be –

The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new –

The time was scarce profaned, by speech –
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe — of our Lord –

Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this — time –
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.

The Hours slid fast — as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands –
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands –

And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other’s Crucifix –
We gave no other Bond –

Sufficient troth, that we shall rise –
Deposed — at length, the Grave –
To that new Marriage,
Justified — through Calvaries of Love –

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

Michael Hartford — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 12:36:08 +0000

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs –
That phraseless Melody –
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky –
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune –
Permitted Gods, and me –

Inheritance, it is, to us –
Beyond the Art to Earn –
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers –
And inner than the Bone –
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands –
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be –
Who never heard that fleshless Chant –
Rise — solemn — on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept –
In Seamless Company –

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Just so — Jesus — raps –

Michael Hartford — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 12:36:29 +0000

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 –

Michael Hartford — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:36:52 +0000

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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