A daily poem from the complete works of Emily Dickinson.
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Take your Heaven further on –
This — to Heaven divine Has gone –
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity — put on –
Now — to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand –
To the Skies — apologize –
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite –
Dressed to meet You –
See — in White!
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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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Perhaps I asked too large –
I take — no less than skies –
For Earths, grow thick as
Berries, in my native town –
My Basket holds — just — Firmaments –
Those — dangle easy — on my arm,
But smaller bundles — Cram.
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Before I got my eye put out
I liked as well to see –
As other Creatures, that have Eyes
And know no other way –
But were it told to me — Today –
That I might have the sky
For mine — I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –
The Meadows — mine –
The Mountains — mine –
All Forests — Stintless Stars –
As much of Noon as I could take
Between my finite eyes –
The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine — to look at when I liked –
The News would strike me dead –
So safer — guess — with just my soul
Upon the Window pane –
Where other Creatures put their eyes –
Incautious — of the Sun –
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I breathed enough to take the Trick –
And now, removed from Air –
I simulate the Breath, so well –
That One, to be quite sure –
The Lungs are stirless — must descend
Among the Cunning Cells –
And touch the Pantomine — Himself,
How numb, the Bellows feels!
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For this — accepted Breath –
Through it — compete with Death –
The fellow cannot touch this Crown –
By it — my title take –
Ah, what a royal sake
To my necessity — stooped down!
No Wilderness — can be
Where this attendeth me –
No Desert Noon –
No fear of frost to come
Haunt the perennial bloom –
But Certain June!
Get Gabriel — to tell — the royal syllable –
Get Saints — with new — unsteady tongue –
To say what trance below
Most like their glory show –
Fittest the Crown!
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