A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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The Months have ends — the Years — a knot –
No Power can untie
To stretch a little further
A Skein of Misery –
The Earth lays back these tired lives
In her mysterious Drawers –
Too tenderly, that any doubt
An ultimate Repose –
The manner of the Children –
Who weary of the Day –
Themself — the noisy Plaything
They cannot put away –
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Smiling back from Coronation
May be Luxury –
On the Heads that started with us –
Being’s Peasantry –
Recognizing in Procession
Ones We former knew –
When Ourselves were also dusty –
Centuries ago –
Had the Triumph no Conviction
Of how many be –
Stimulated — by the Contrast –
Unto Misery –
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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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I know lives, I could miss
Without a Misery –
Others — whose instant’s wanting –
Would be Eternity –
The last — a scanty Number –
‘Twould scarcely fill a Two –
The first — a Gnat’s Horizon
Could easily outgrow –
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I got so I could take his name –
Without — Tremendous gain –
That Stop-sensation — on my Soul –
And Thunder — in the Room –
I got so I could walk across
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned — how –
And all our Sinew tore –
I got so I could stir the Box –
In which his letters grew
Without that forcing, in my breath –
As Staples — driven through –
Could dimly recollect a Grace –
I think, they call it “God” –
Renowned to ease Extremity –
When Formula, had failed –
And shape my Hands –
Petition’s way,
Tho’ ignorant of a word
That Ordination — utters –
My Business, with the Cloud,
If any Power behind it, be,
Not subject to Despair –
It care, in some remoter way,
For so minute affair
As Misery –
Itself, too vast, for interrupting — more –
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