A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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A Secret told –
Ceases to be a Secret — then –
A Secret — kept –
That — can appal but One –
Better of it — continual be afraid –
Than it –
And Whom you told it to — beside –
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Of Course — I prayed –
And did God Care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird — had stamped her foot –
And cried “Give Me” –
My Reason — Life –
I had not had — but for Yourself –
‘Twere better Charity
To leave me in the Atom’s Tomb –
Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb –
Than this smart Misery.
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‘Tis not that Dying hurts us so –
‘Tis Living — hurts us more –
But Dying — is a different way –
A Kind behind the Door –
The Southern Custom — of the Bird –
That ere the Frosts are due –
Accepts a better Latitude –
We — are the Birds — that stay.
The Shrivers round Farmers’ doors –
For whose reluctant Crumb –
We stipulate — till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.
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Kill your Balm — and its Odors bless you –
Bare your Jessamine — to the storm –
And she will fling her maddest perfume –
Haply — your Summer night to Charm –
Stab the Bird — that built in your bosom –
Oh, could you catch her last Refrain –
Bubble! “forgive” — “Some better” — Bubble!
“Carol for Him — when I am gone”!
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Tho’ I get home how late — how late –
So I get home – ’twill 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!
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