One Year ago — jots what?
God — spell the word! I — can’t –
Was’t Grace? Not that –
Was’t Glory? That — will do –
Spell slower — Glory –
Such Anniversary shall be –
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Tags: anniversary, glory, god, grace, jots, one, slower, spell, word, year
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful — as to the village –
Tranquil — as to repose –
Chastened — as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious –
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet –
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew –
Hands bustled at the moorings –
The crown respectful grew –
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference — A Daisy –
Is all the rest I knew!
Tags: bells, bouquet, bravoes, bystander, chapel, chastened, cheerfil, countenances, daisy, difference, evening, gales, repose, roses, tourist, tranquil, village, vision, wonder, year
There is a morn by men unseen –
Whose maids upon remoter green
Keep their Seraphic May –
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name –
Employ their holiday.
Here to light measure, move the feet
Which walk no more the village street –
Nor by the wood are found –
Here are the birds that sought the sun
When last year’s distaff idle hung
And summer’s brows were bound.
Ne’er saw I such a wondrous scene –
Ne’er such a ring on such a green –
Nor so serene array –
As if the stars some summer night
Should swing their cups of Chrysolite –
And revel till the day –
Like thee to dance — like thee to sing –
People upon the mystic green –
I ask, each new May Morn.
I wait thy far, fantastic bells –
Unto the different dawn!
Tags: bird, feet, may, men, night, see, sing, star, stars, summer, sun, tree, year
One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There’s only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
One came the road that I came –
And wore my last year’s gown –
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.
She did not sing as we did –
It was a different tune –
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.
Today is far from Childhood –
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter –
Which shortened all the miles –
And still her hum
The years among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.
I spilt the dew –
But took the morn –
I chose this single star
From out the wide night’s numbers –
Sue – forevermore!
Tags: away, bee, bird, fly, hills, house, june, may, music, night, sing, star, year
The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go –
The Crocus — til she rises
The Vassal of the snow –
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practise bore
Til bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.
Pearls are the Diver’s farthings
Extorted from the Sea –
Pinions — the Seraph’s wagon
Pedestrian once — as we –
Night is the morning’s Canvas
Larceny — legacy –
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.
My figures fail to tell me
How far the Village lies –
Whose peasants are the Angels –
Whose Cantons dot the skies –
My Classics veil their faces –
My faith that Dark adores –
Which from its solemn abbeys
Such ressurection pours.
Tags: angels, death, faith, feet, morning, night, sea, sing, singing, skies, snow, year
Jane writes of her visit to the two Dickinson homes, The Evergreens and The Homestead:
While The Homestead is decidedly ghost free, The Evergreens is not. … Today, the house is in a serious state of dilapidation, yet it retains most of the original contents. While dusty and seriously frayed, the chair Emerson is said to have occupied in the parlor looks as if he could emerge from another room and sit down once again to engage in conversation about the lecture he completed at Amherst College a mere 142 years ago. Yet, the house is eerie. When entering the dining room where Susan Dickinson entertained her guests, there is a noticeable drop in temperature (even in the summer). A chill hangs in the air over the table which looks as though it is set for a spectral dinner party.
I can’t think of a better recommendation for a museum visit than this:
The Evergreens is the saddest museum in America. If there are such things as ghosts, they surely walk at The Evergreens.
‘T was just this time last year I died.
I know I heard the corn,
When I was carried by the farms, –
It had the tassels on.
I thought how yellow it would look
When Richard went to mill;
And then I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how red apples wedged
The stubble’s joints between;
And carts went stooping round the fields
To take the pumpkins in.
I wondered which would miss me least,
And when Thanksgiving came,
If father’d multiply the plates
To make an even sum.
And if my stocking hung too high,
Would it blur the Christmas glee,
That not a Santa Claus could reach
The altitude of me?
But this sort grieved myself, and so
I thought how it would be
When just this time, some perfect year,
Themselves should come to me.
Tags: christmas, die, thanksgiving, thought, year
From us she wandered now a year,
Her tarrying unknown;
If wilderness prevent her feet,
Or that ethereal zone
No eye hath seen and lived,
We ignorant must be.
We only know what time of year
We took the mystery.
Keeping Up with Emily
