A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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If any sink, assure that this, now standing –
Failed like Themselves — and conscious that it rose –
Grew by the Fact, and not the Understanding
How Weakness passed — or Force — arose –
Tell that the Worst, is easy in a Moment –
Dread, but the Whizzing, before the Ball –
When the Ball enters, enters Silence –
Dying — annuls the power to kill.
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‘Twas the old — road — through pain –
That unfrequented — one –
With many a turn — and thorn –
That stops — at Heaven –
This — was the Town — she passed –
There — where she — rested — last –
Then — stepped more fast –
The little tracks — close prest –
Then — not so swift –
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow –
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book –
The leaf — at love — turned back –
Her very Hat –
And this worn shoe just fits the track –
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one –
Women make — tonight –
In Chambers bright –
Too out of sight — though –
For our hoarse Good Night –
To touch her Head!
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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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There came a Day at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me –
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections — be –
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new –
The time was scarce profaned, by speech –
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe — of our Lord –
Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this — time –
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.
The Hours slid fast — as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands –
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands –
And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other’s Crucifix –
We gave no other Bond –
Sufficient troth, that we shall rise –
Deposed — at length, the Grave –
To that new Marriage,
Justified — through Calvaries of Love –
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That after Horror — that ’twas us –
That passed the mouldering Pier –
Just as the Granite Crumb let go –
Our Savior, by a Hair –
A second more, had dropped too deep
For Fisherman to plumb –
The very profile of the Thought
Puts Recollection numb –
The possibility — to pass
Without a Moment’s Bell –
Into Conjecture’s presence –
Is like a Face of Steel –
That suddenly looks into ours
With a metallic grin –
The Cordiality of Death –
Who drills his Welcome in –
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