I’d Rather Be by Emily Dickinson

        I”d Rather Be

I would not paint – a picture –
I’d rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell – delicious – on
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare- celestial – stir –
Evokes so sweet a Torment –
Such sumptuous – Despair – 

I would not talk, like Cornets –
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings –
And out, and easy on –
Through Villages of Ether –
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal –
The pier to my Pontoon – 

Nor would I be a Poet –
It’s finer – own the Ear –
Enamored – impotent – content –
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!

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The Only Ghost by Emily Dickinson

 

The Only Ghost 

The only Ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in Mechlin – so –
He wore no sandal on his foot  -
And stepped like flakes of snow – 

His Gait – was soundless, like the Bird –
But rapid – like the Roe –
His fashions, quaint, Mosaic –
Or haply, Mistletoe – 

His conversation – seldom –
His laughter, like the Breeze –
That dies away in Dimples
Among the pensive Trees – 

Our interview – was transient –
Of me, himself was shy –
And God forbid I look behind –
Since that appalling Day!

—————————————

photo by Lars Sundstrom at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mifyxr8/Ghost

 

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The Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson

 

The Thing With Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches on the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.
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photo by Manu Mohan at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgF4aQ8/Pigeon+flight

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To Die by Emily Dickinson

                  To Die

To die – takes just a little while –
They say it doesn’t hurt –
It’s only fainter – by degrees –
And then – it’s out of sight – 

A darker Ribbon – for a Day –
A Crape upon the Hat –
And then the pretty sunshine comes –
And helps us to forget – 

The absent – mystic – creature –
That but for love of us –
Had gone to sleep – that soundest time –
Without the weariness –

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From A Hundred Cribs by Emily Dickinson

From A Hundred Cribs

As Children bid the Guest “Good Night”
And then reluctant turn –
My flowers raise their pretty lips –
Then put their nightgowns on.

As children caper when they wake
Merry that it is Morn –
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.

———————————————

photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhiHX76/Flowerbed

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My Priceless Hay by Emily Dickinson

(Photo credit: cindy47452)

My Priceless Hay

I cautious, scanned my little life –
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn –
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo – my priceless Hay

Was not upon the “Scaffold” –
Was not upon the “Beam” –
And from a thriving Farmer –
A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it –
Whether it was the wind –
Whether Deity’s guiltless –
My business, is to find!

So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?

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How Far The Village Lies by Emily Dickinson

  How Far The Village Lies

The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go –
The Crocus – till she rises
The Vassal of the snow –
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practice bore
Till 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 resurrection pours.

 

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The Snow by Emily Dickinson

(Photo credit: llan srinu via Wikipedia)

The Snow

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountains and of plain, -
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, -
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvest were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, -
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

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I Never Saw A Moor by Emily Dickinson

I never saw a Moor –
I never saw the Sea –
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be.

I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven –
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given –

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Without The Privilege by Emily Dickinson

(Photo credit: Tatters:))

Without The Privilege

How many Flowers fail in Wood –
Or perish from the Hill –
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful –

How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze –
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight –
It bear to Other eyes –

 

 

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