A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Flowers — Well — if anybody
Can the ecstasy define –
Half a transport — half a trouble –
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow –
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine –
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line –
Have a system of aesthetics –
Far superior to mine.
Tags: aesthetics, breast, butterflies, daisies, ecstasy, floods, flowers, fountain, hillside, humble, men, pathos, purple, simple, superior, transport, trouble
“Houses” — so the Wise Men tell me –
“Mansions”! Mansions must be warm!
Mansions cannot let the tears in,
Mansions must exclude the storm!
“Many Mansions,” by “his Father,”
I don’t know him; snugly built!
Could the Children find the way there –
Some, would even trudge tonight!
Tags: built, children, father, houses, mansions, men, snugly, storm, tears, tonight, trudge, warm, wise
There is a morn by men unseen –
Whose maids upon remoter green
Keep their Seraphic May –
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name –
Employ their holiday.
Here to light measure, move the feet
Which walk no more the village street –
Nor by the wood are found –
Here are the birds that sought the sun
When last year’s distaff idle hung
And summer’s brows were bound.
Ne’er saw I such a wondrous scene –
Ne’er such a ring on such a green –
Nor so serene array –
As if the stars some summer night
Should swing their cups of Chrysolite –
And revel till the day –
Like thee to dance — like thee to sing –
People upon the mystic green –
I ask, each new May Morn.
I wait thy far, fantastic bells –
Unto the different dawn!
Tags: bird, feet, may, men, night, see, sing, star, stars, summer, sun, tree, year
A toad can die of light!
Death is the common right
Of toads and men, –
Of earl and midge
The privilege.
Why swagger then?
The gnat’s supremacy
Is large as thine.
I wonder if the sepulchre
Is not a lonesome way,
When men and boys, and larks and June
Go down the fields to hay!
A sickness of this world it most occasions
When best men die;
A wishfulness their far condition
To occupy.
A chief indifference, as foreign
A world must be
Themselves forsake contented,
For Deity.
Not any higher stands the grave
For heroes than for men;
Not any nearer for the child
Than numb three-score and ten.
This latest leisure equal lulls
The beggar and his queen;
Propitiate this democrat
By summer’s gracious mien.
How dare the robins sing,
When men and women hear
Who since they went to their account
Have settled with the year! –
Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.
Insulting is the sun
To him whose mortal light,
Beguiled of immortality,
Bequeaths him to the night.
In deference to him
Extinct be every hum,
Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
At daybreak overcome!
