A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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It’s coming — the postponeless Creature –
It gains the Block — and now — it gains the Door –
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings –
Enters — with a “You know Me — Sir”?
Simple Salute — and certain Recognition –
Bold — were it Enemy — Brief — were it friend –
Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle –
And carries one — out of it — to God –
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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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She lay as if at play
Her life had leaped away –
Intending to return –
But not so soon –
Her merry Arms, half dropt –
As if for lull of sport –
An instant had forgot –
The Trick to start –
Her dancing Eyes — ajar –
As if their Owner were
Still sparkling through
For fun — at you –
Her Morning at the door –
Devising, I am sure –
To force her sleep –
So light — so deep –
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Although I put away his life –
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand
That sowed the flower, he preferred –
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path –
Or played his chosen tune –
On Lute the least — the latest –
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go –
The foot to bear his errand –
A little Boot I know –
Would leap abroad like Antelope –
With just the grant to do –
His weariest Commandment –
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” –
Or skip to Flutes –
Or all Day, chase the Bee –
Your Servant, Sir, will weary –
The Surgeon, will not come –
The World, will have its own — to do –
The Dust, will vex your Fame –
The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay –
That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me –
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.
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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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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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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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If your Nerve, deny you –
Go above your Nerve –
He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve –
That’s a steady posture –
Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms –
Best Giant made –
If your Soul seesaw –
Lift the Flesh door –
The Poltroon wants Oxygen –
Nothing more –
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