A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Removed from Accident of Loss
By Accident of Gain
Befalling not my simple Days –
Myself had just to earn –
Of Riches — as unconscious
As is the Brown Malay
Of Pearls in Eastern Waters,
Marked His — What Holiday
Would stir his slow conception –
Had he the power to dream
That put the Dower’s fraction –
Awaited even — Him –
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The Angle of a Landscape –
That every time I wake –
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack –
Like a Venetian — waiting –
Accosts my open eye –
Is just a Bough of Apples –
Held slanting, in the Sky –
The Pattern of a Chimney –
The Forehead of a Hill –
Sometimes — a Vane’s Forefinger –
But that’s — Occasional –
The Seasons — shift — my Picture –
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake — to find no — Emeralds –
Then — Diamonds — which the Snow
From Polar Caskets — fetched me –
The Chimney — and the Hill –
And just the Steeple’s finger –
These — never stir at all –
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The Grass so little has to do –
A Sphere of simple Green –
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain –
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along –
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything –
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls –
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing –
And even when it dies — to pass
In Odors so divine –
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep –
Or Spikenards, perishing –
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell –
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay –
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Many a phrase has the English language –
I have heard but one –
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue –
Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide’s a’ lull –
Saying itself in new inflection –
Like a Whippoorwill –
Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep –
Thundering its Prospective –
Till I stir, and weep –
Not for the Sorrow, done me –
But the push of Joy –
Say it again, Saxton!
Hush — Only to me!
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