Tag Archives: drop

Rehearsal to Ourselves

Rehearsal to OurselvesRehearsal to Ourselves
Of a Withdrawn Delight —
Affords a Bliss like Murder —
Omnipotent — Acute —

We will not drop the Dirk —
Because We love the Wound
The Dirk Commemorate — Itself
Remind Us that we died.

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There are two Ripenings — one — of sight –

There are two Ripenings -- one -- of sight --There are two Ripenings — one — of sight —
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground —
A homelier maturing —
A process in the Bur —
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air.

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The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea

The Drop, that wrestles in the SeaThe Drop, that wrestles in the Sea—
Forgets her own locality—
As I—toward Thee—

She knows herself an incense small—
Yet small—she sighs—if All—is All—
How larger—be?

The Ocean—smiles—at her Conceit—
But she, forgetting Amphitrite—
Pleads—”Me”?

Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!

Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!
Why, God, would be content
With but a fraction of the Life —
Poured thee, without a stint —
The whole of me — forever —
What more the Woman can,
Say quick, that I may dower thee
With last Delight I own!

It cannot be my Spirit —
For that was thine, before —
I ceded all of Dust I knew —
What Opulence the more
Had I — a freckled Maiden,
Whose farthest of Degree,
Was — that she might —
Some distant Heaven,
Dwell timidly, with thee!

Sift her, from Brow to Barefoot!
Strain till your last Surmise —
Drop, like a Tapestry, away,
Before the Fire’s Eyes —
Winnow her finest fondness —
But hallow just the snow
Intact, in Everlasting flake —
Oh, Caviler, for you!

the saddest museum in America

Jane writes of her visit to the two Dickinson homes, The Evergreens and The Homestead:

While The Homestead is decidedly ghost free, The Evergreens is not. … Today, the house is in a serious state of dilapidation, yet it retains most of the original contents. While dusty and seriously frayed, the chair Emerson is said to have occupied in the parlor looks as if he could emerge from another room and sit down once again to engage in conversation about the lecture he completed at Amherst College a mere 142 years ago. Yet, the house is eerie. When entering the dining room where Susan Dickinson entertained her guests, there is a noticeable drop in temperature (even in the summer). A chill hangs in the air over the table which looks as though it is set for a spectral dinner party.

I can’t think of a better recommendation for a museum visit than this:

The Evergreens is the saddest museum in America. If there are such things as ghosts, they surely walk at The Evergreens.

TRYING TO FORGET.

TRYING TO FORGET.Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, —
The grave preceded me,

Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
The pillow for my head.

I waked, to find it first awake,
I rose, — it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
To lose it in the sea,

In cups of artificial drowse
To sleep its shape away, —
The grave was finished, but the spade
Remained in memory.

THE COMING OF NIGHT.

THE COMING OF NIGHT.How the old mountains drip with sunset,
And the brake of dun!
How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel
By the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,
Till the ball is full, —
Have I the lip of the flamingo
That I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,
Touching all the grass
With a departing, sapphire feature,
As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the village
Till the houses blot;
And the odd flambeaux no men carry
Glimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel,
And where was the wood,
Just a dome of abyss is nodding
Into solitude! —

These are the visions baffled Guido;
Titian never told;
Domenichino dropped the pencil,
Powerless to unfold.