A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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‘Twas Love — not me –
Oh punish — pray –
The Real one died for Thee –
Just Him — not me –
Such Guilt — to love Thee — most!
Doom it beyond the Rest –
Forgive it — last –
‘Twas base as Jesus — most!
Let Justice not mistake –
We Two — looked so alike –
Which was the Guilty Sake –
‘Twas Love’s — Now Strike!
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A precious — mouldering pleasure — ’tis –
To meet an Antique Book –
In just the Dress his Century wore –
A privilege — I think –
His venerable Hand to take –
And warming in our own –
A passage back — or two — to make –
To Times when he — was young –
His quaint opinions — to inspect –
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind –
The Literature of Man –
What interested Scholars — most –
What Competitions ran –
When Plato — was a Certainty –
And Sophocles — a Man –
When Sappho — was a living Girl –
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified –
Facts Centuries before
He traverses — familiar –
As One should come to Town –
And tell you all your Dreams — were true –
He lived — where Dreams were born –
His presence is Enchantment –
You beg him not to go –
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize — just so –
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Of Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White –
The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank
Of Victors — designate –
All these — did conquer –
But the ones who overcame most times –
Wear nothing commoner than Snow –
No Ornament, but Palms –
Surrender — is a sort unknown –
On this superior soil –
Defeat — an outgrown Anguish –
Remembered, as the Mile
Our panting Ankle barely passed –
When Night devoured the Road –
But we — stood whispering in the House –
And all we said — was “Saved”!
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