A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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‘T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
No station in the day?
‘T was not thy wont to hinder so, –
Retrieve thine industry.
‘T is noon, my little maid, alas!
And art thou sleeping yet?
The lily waiting to be wed,
The bee, dost thou forget?
My little maid, ‘t is night; alas,
That night should be to thee
Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached
Thy little plan to me,
Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet,
I might have aided thee.
It’s like the light, –
A fashionless delight
It’s like the bee, –
A dateless melody.
It’s like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.
It’s like the morning, –
Best when it’s done, –
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.
Morning is the place for dew,
Corn is made at noon,
After dinner light for flowers,
Dukes for setting sun!
Poor little heart!
Did they forget thee?
Then dinna care! Then dinna care!
Proud little heart!
Did they forsake thee?
Be debonair! Be debonair!
Frail little heart!
I would not break thee:
Could’st credit me? Could’st credit me?
Gay little heart!
Like morning glory
Thou’ll wilted be; thou’ll wilted be!
Split the lark and you’ll find the music,
Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,
Scantily dealt to the summer morning,
Saved for your ear when lutes be old.
Loose the flood, you shall find it patent,
Gush after gush, reserved for you;
Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas,
Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
I have a king who does not speak;
So, wondering, thro’ the hours meek
I trudge the day away,–
Half glad when it is night and sleep,
If, haply, thro’ a dream to peep
In parlors shut by day.
And if I do, when morning comes,
It is as if a hundred drums
Did round my pillow roll,
And shouts fill all my childish sky,
And bells keep saying ‘victory’
From steeples in my soul!
And if I don’t, the little Bird
Within the Orchard is not heard,
And I omit to pray,
‘Father, thy will be done’ to-day,
For my will goes the other way,
And it were perjury!
While I was fearing it, it came,
But came with less of fear,
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it dear.
There is a fitting a dismay,
A fitting a despair.
‘Tis harder knowing it is due,
Than knowing it is here.
The trying on the utmost,
The morning it is new,
Is terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.
Great streets of silence led away
To neighborhoods of pause;
Here was no notice, no dissent,
No universe, no laws.
By clocks ‘t was morning, and for night
The bells at distance called;
But epoch had no basis here,
For period exhaled.
Podcast music by Antonio Meneses
