A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Did Our Best Moment last –
‘Twould supersede the Heaven –
A few — and they by Risk — procure –
So this Sort — are not given –
Except as stimulants — in
Cases of Despair –
Or Stupor — The Reserve –
These Heavenly Moments are –
A Grant of the Divine –
That Certain as it Comes –
Withdraws — and leaves the dazzled Soul
In her unfurnished Rooms
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Take your Heaven further on –
This — to Heaven divine Has gone –
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity — put on –
Now — to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand –
To the Skies — apologize –
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite –
Dressed to meet You –
See — in White!
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The Grass so little has to do –
A Sphere of simple Green –
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain –
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along –
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything –
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls –
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing –
And even when it dies — to pass
In Odors so divine –
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep –
Or Spikenards, perishing –
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell –
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay –
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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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Tho’ my destiny be Fustian –
Hers be damask fine –
Tho’ she wear a silver apron –
I, a less divine –
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil –
And no Reapers stand!
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