The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson/Part 1
PART ONE
LIFE
THIS is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,—
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
That never wrote to me,—
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
I
SUCCESS is counted sweetestBy those who ne’er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBreak, agonized and clear.
II
OUR share of night to bear,Our share of morning,Our blank in bliss to fill,Our blank in scorning.
Here a star, and there a star,Some lose their way.Here a mist, and there a mist,Afterwards—day!
III
SOUL, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.
Angels’ breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.
IV
'TIS so much joy! ’Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side the victory!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side the victory!
Life is but life, and death but death!
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
And if, indeed, I fail,
At least to know the worst is sweet.
Defeat means nothing but defeat,
No drearier can prevail!
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
And if, indeed, I fail,
At least to know the worst is sweet.
Defeat means nothing but defeat,
No drearier can prevail!
And if I gain,—oh, gun at sea,
Oh, bells that in the steeples be,
At first repeat it slow!
For heaven is a different thing
Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o’erwhelm me so!
Oh, bells that in the steeples be,
At first repeat it slow!
For heaven is a different thing
Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o’erwhelm me so!
V
GLEE! the great storm is over!
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.
Ring, for the scant salvation!
Toll, for the bonnie souls,—
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals!
Toll, for the bonnie souls,—
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals!
How they will tell the shipwreck
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, “But the forty?
Did they come back no more?”
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, “But the forty?
Did they come back no more?”
Then a silence suffuses the story,
And a softness the teller’s eye;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.
And a softness the teller’s eye;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.
VI
IF I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain
VII
WITHIN my reach!I could have touched!I might have chanced that way!Soft sauntered through the village,Sauntered as soft away!So unsuspected violetsWithin the fields lie low,Too late for striving fingersThat passed, an hour ago.
VIII
A WOUNDED deer leaps highest,I’ve heard the hunter tell;’T is but the ecstasy of death,And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,The trampled steel that springs:A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,In which it caution arm,Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd “You’re hurt” exclaim!
IX
THE heart asks pleasure first,And then, excuse from pain;And then, those little anodynesThat deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;And then, if it should beThe will of its Inquisitor,The liberty to die.
X
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasure ’tisTo 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 makeTo times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind.The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty,And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified.Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were trueHe lived where dreams were born.
His presence is enchantment,You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize, just so.
XI
MUCH madness is divinest senseTo a discerning eye;Much sense the starkest madness.’T is the majorityIn this, as all, prevails.Assent, and you are sane;Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,And handled with a chain.
XII
I ASKED no other thing,No other was denied.I offered Being for it;The mighty merchant smiled.
Brazil? He twirled a button,Without a glance my way:“But, madam, is there nothing elseThat we can show to-day?”
XIII
THE soul selects her own society,Then shuts the door;On her divine majorityObtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausingAt her low gate;Unmoved, an emperor is kneelingUpon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nationChoose one;Then close the valves of her attentionLike stone.
XIV
SOME things that fly there be,—Birds, hours, the bumble–bee:Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be,—Grief, hills, eternity:Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.Can I expound the skies?How still the riddle lies!
XV
I KNOW some lonely houses off the roadA robber’d like the look of,—Wooden barred,And windows hanging low,Inviting toA portico,
Where two could creep:One hand the tools,The other peepTo make sure all’s asleep.Old-fashioned eyes,Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen’d look by night,With just a clock,—But they could gag the tick,And mice won’t bark;And so the walls don’t tell,None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir—An almanac’s aware.Was it the mat winked,Or a nervous star?The moon slides down the stairTo see who’s there.
There’s plunder,—where?Tankard, or spoon,Earring, or stone,A watch, some ancient broochTo match the grandmamma,Staid sleeping there.
Day rattles, too,Stealth’s slow;The sun has got as farAs the third sycamore.Screams chanticleer,“Who’s there?”
And echoes, trains away,Sneer—“Where?”While the old couple, just astir.Think that the sunrise left the door ajar!
XVI
TO fight aloud is very brave,But gallanter, I know,Who charge within the bosom,The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,Who fall, and none observe,Whose dying eyes no countryRegards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,For such the angels go,Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow.
XVII
WHEN night is almost done,And sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the spaces,It’s time to smooth the hair
And get the dimples ready,And wonder we could careFor that old faded midnightThat frightened but an hour.
XVIII
READ, sweet, how others strove,Till we are stouter;What they renounced,Till we are less afraid;How many times they boreThe faithful witness,Till we are helped,As if a kingdom cared!
Read then of faithThat shone above the fagot;Clear strains of hymnThe river could not drown;Brave names of menAnd celestial women,Passed out of recordInto renown!
XIX
PAIN has an element of blank;It cannot recollectWhen it began, or if there wereA day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain.
XX
I TASTE a liquor never brewed,From tankards scooped in pearl;Not all the vats upon the RhineYield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,And debauchee of dew,Reeling, through endless summer days,From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken beeOut of the foxglove’s door,When butterflies renounce their drams,I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,And saints to windows run,To see the little tipplerLeaning against the sun!
XXI
HE ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor.Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!
XXII
I HAD no time to hate, becauseThe grave would hinder me,And life was not so ample ICould finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but sinceSome industry must be,The little toil of love, I thought,Was large enough for me.
XXIII
'TWAS such a little, little boatThat toddled down the bay!’T was such a gallant, gallant seaThat beckoned it away!
’T was such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the coast;Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!
XXIV
WHETHER my bark went down at sea,Whether she met with gales,Whether to isles enchantedShe bent her docile sails;
By what mystic mooringShe is held to-day,—This is the errand of the eyeOut upon the bay.
XXV
BELSHAZZAR had a letter,—He never had but one;Belshazzar’s correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation’s wall.
XXVI
THE brain within its grooveRuns evenly and true;But let a splinter swerve,’T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!
XXVII
I’M nobody! Who are you?Are you nobody, too?Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!How public, like a frogTo tell your name the livelong dayTo an admiring bog!
XXVIII
I BRING an unaccustomed wineTo lips long parching, next to mine,And summon them to drink.
Crackling with fever, they essay;I turn my brimming eyes away,And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass;The lips I would have cooled, alas!Are so superfluous cold,
I would as soon attempt to warmThe bosoms where the frost has lainAges beneath the mould.
Some other thirsty there may beTo whom this would have pointed meHad it remained to speak.
And so I always bear the cupIf, haply, mine may be the dropSome pilgrim thirst to slake,—
If, haply, any say to me,“Unto the little, unto me,”When I at last awake.
XXIX
THE nearest dream recedes, unrealized.The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover—Dips—evades—teases—deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boyStaring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies notThat brews that rare variety.
XXX
WE play at paste,Till qualified for pearl,Then drop the paste,And deem ourself a fool.The shapes, though, were similar.And our new handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.
XXXI
I FOUND the phrase to every thoughtI ever had, but one;And that defies me,—as a handDid try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark;—How would your own begin?Can blaze be done in cochineal,Or noon in mazarin?
XXXII
HOPE is the thing with feathersThat perches in 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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat 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.
XXXIII
DARE you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door.Red is the fire’s common tint; But when the vivid ore
Has sated flame’s conditions, Its quivering substance playsWithout a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.
Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil’s even dinStands symbol for the finer forge That soundless tugs within,
Refining these impatient ores With hammer and with blaze,Until the designated light Repudiate the forge.
XXXIV
WHO never lost, are unpreparedA coronet to find;Who never thirsted, flagonsAnd cooling tamarind.
Who never climbed the weary league—Can such a foot exploreThe purple territoriesOn Pizarro’s shore?
How many legions overcome?The emperor will say.How many colors takenOn Revolution Day?
How many bullets bearest?The royal scar hast thou?Angels, write “Promoted”On this soldier’s brow!
XXXV
I CAN wade grief,Whole pools of it,—I’m used to that.But the least push of joyBreaks up my feet,And I tip—drunken.Let no pebble smile,’T was the new liquor,—That was all!
Power is only pain,Stranded, through discipline,Till weights will hang.Give balm to giants,And they’ll wilt, like men.Give Himmaleh,—They’ll carry him!
XXXVI
I NEVER hear the word "escape"Without a quicker blood,A sudden expectation,A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broadBy soldiers battered down,But I tug childish at my bars —Only to fail again!
XXXVII
FOR each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.
For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.
XXXVIII
THROUGH the straight pass of sufferingThe martyrs even trod,Their feet upon temptation,Their faces upon God.
A stately, shriven company;Convulsion playing round,Harmless as streaks of meteorUpon a planet’s bound.
Their faith the everlasting troth;Their expectation fair;The needle to the north degreeWades so, through polar air.
XXXIX
I MEANT to have but modest needs,Such as content, and heaven;Within my income these could lie,And life and I keep even.
But since the last included both,It would suffice my prayerBut just for one to stipulate,And grace would grant the pair.
And so, upon this wise I prayed,—Great Spirit, give to meA heaven not so large as yours,But large enough for me.
A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;The cherubim withdrew;Grave saints stole out to look at me,And showed their dimples, too.
I left the place with all my might,—My prayer away I threw;The quiet ages picked it up,And Judgment twinkled, too,
That one so honest be extantAs take the tale for trueThat “Whatsoever you shall ask,Itself be given you.”
But I, grown shrewder, scan the skiesWith a suspicious air,—As children, swindled for the first,All swindlers be, infer.
XL
THE thought beneath so slight a filmIs more distinctly seen,—As laces just reveal the surge,Or mists the Apennine.
XLI
THE soul unto itselfIs an imperial friend,—Or the most agonizing spyAn enemy could send.
Secure against its own,No treason it can fear;Itself its sovereign, of itselfThe soul should stand in awe.
XLII
SURGEONS must be very carefulWhen they take the knife!Underneath their fine incisionsStirs the culprit,—Life!
XLIII
I LIKE to see it lap the miles,And lick the valleys up,And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop—docile and omnipotent—At its own stable door.
XLIV
THE show is not the show,But they that go.Menagerie to meMy neighbor be.Fair play—Both went to see.
XLV
DELIGHT becomes pictorialWhen viewed through pain,—More fair, because impossibleThat any gain.
The mountain at a given distanceIn amber lies;Approached, the amber flits a little,—And that’s the skies!
XLVI
A THOUGHT went up my mind to-dayThat I have had before,But did not finish,—some way back,I could not fix the year,
Nor where it went, nor why it cameThe second time to me,Nor definitely what it was,Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I knowI’ve met the thing before;It just reminded me—’t was all—And came my way no more.
XLVII
IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal;But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe;But that negotiation I’m not a party to.
XLVIII
THOUGH I get home how late, how late!So I get home, ’t will compensate.Better will be the ecstasyThat they have done expecting me,When, night descending, dumb and dark,They hear my unexpected knock.Transporting must the moment be,Brewed from decades of agony!
To think just how the fire will burn,Just how long-cheated eyes will turnTo wonder what myself will say,And what itself will say to me,Beguiles the centuries of way!
XLIX
A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart,That sat it down to rest,Nor noticed that the ebbing dayFlowed silver to the west,Nor noticed night did soft descendNor constellation burn,Intent upon the visionOf latitudes unknown.
The angels, happening that way,This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toilAnd carried it to God.There,—sandals for the barefoot;There,—gathered from the gales,Do the blue havens by the handLead the wandering sails.
L
I SHOULD have been too glad, I see,Too lifted for the scant degree Of life’s penurious round;My little circuit would have shamedThis new circumference, have blamed The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved, I see,Too rescued; fear too dim to me That I could spell the prayerI knew so perfect yesterday,—That scalding one, “ Sabachthani,” Recited fluent here.
Earth would have been too much, I see,And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joyWithout the fear to justify,—The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.
Defeat whets victory, they say;The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the shore beyond.’T is beggars banquets best define;’T is thirsting vitalizes wine,— Faith faints to understand.
LI
IT tossed and tossed,—A little brig I knew,—O’ertook by blast,It spun and spun,And groped delirious, for morn.
It slipped and slipped,As one that drunken stepped;Its white foot tripped,Then dropped from sight.
Ah, brig, good-nightTo crew and you;The ocean’s heart too smooth, too blue,To break for you.
LII
VICTORY comes late,And is held low to freezing lipsToo rapt with frostTo take it.
How sweet it would have tasted,Just a drop!Was God so economical?His table’s spread too high for usUnless we dine on tip-toe.Crumbs fit such little mouths,Cherries suit robins;The eagle’s golden breakfastStrangles them.God keeps his oath to sparrows,Who of little loveKnow how to starve!
LIII
GOD gave a loaf to every bird.But just a crumb to me;I dare not eat it, though I starve,—My poignant luxuryTo own it, touch it, prove the featThat made the pellet mine,—Too happy in my sparrow chanceFor ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around,I could not miss an ear,Such plenty smiles upon my board,My garner shows so fair.I wonder how the rich may feel,—An Indiaman—an Earl?I deem that I with but a crumbAm sovereign of them all.
LIV
EXPERIMENT to meIs every one I meet.If it contain a kernel?The figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree,Equally plausibly;But meat within is requisite.To squirrels and to me.
LV
MY country need not change her gown,Her triple suit as sweetAs when’t was cut at Lexington,And first pronounced “ a fit.”
Great Britain disapproves “the stars”;Disparagement discreet,—There’s something in their attitudeThat taunts her bayonet.
LVI
FAITH is a fine inventionFor gentlemen who see;But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency!
LVII
EXCEPT the heaven had come so near,So seemed to choose my door,The distance would not haunt me so;I had not hoped before.
But just to hear the grace departI never thought to see,Afflicts me with a double loss;’T is lost, and lost to me.
LVIII
PORTRAITS are to daily facesAs an evening westTo a fine, pedantic sunshineIn a satin vest.
LIX
I TOOK my power in my handAnd went against the world;’T was not so much as David had,But I was twice as bold.
I aimed my pebble, but myselfWas all the one that fell.Was it Goliath was too large,Or only I too small?
LX
A SHADY friend for torrid daysIs easier to findThan one of higher temperatureFor frigid hour of mind.
The vane a little to the eastScares muslin souls away;If broadcloth breasts are firmerThan those of organdy,
Who is to blame? The weaver?Ah! the bewildering thread!The tapestries of paradiseSo notelessly are made!
LXI
EACH life converges to some centreExpressed or still ;Exists in every human natureA goal,
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility’s temerityTo dare.
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow’s raimentTo touch,
Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints’ slow diligenceThe sky!
Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain.
LXII
BEFORE I got my eye put out,I liked as well to seeAs other creatures that have eyes,And know no other way.
But were it told to me, to-day,That I might have the skyFor mine, I tell you that my heartWould split, for size of me.
The meadows mine, the mountains mine,—All forests, stintless stars,As much of noon as I could takeBetween my finite eyes.
The motions of the dipping birds,The lightning’s jointed road,For mine to look at when I liked,—The news would strike me dead!
So, safer, guess, with just my soulUpon the window-paneWhere other creatures put their eyes.Incautious of the sun.
LXIII
TALK with prudence to a beggarOf “Potosi” and the mines!Reverently to the hungryOf your viands and your wines!
Cautious, hint to any captiveYou have passed enfranchised feet!Anecdotes of air in dungeonsHave sometimes proved deadly sweet!
LXIV
HE preached upon “breadth” till it argued him narrow,—The broad are too broad to define;And of “truth” until it proclaimed him a liar,—The truth never flaunted a sign.
Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presenceAs gold the pyrites would shun.What confusion would cover the innocent JesusTo meet so enabled a man!
LXV
GOOD night! which put the candle out?A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knewHow long at that celestial wickThe angels labored diligent; Extinguished, now, for you!
It might have been the lighthouse sparkSome sailor, rowing in the dark, Had importuned to see!It might have been the waning lampThat lit the drummer from the camp To purer reveille!
LXVI
WHEN I hoped I feared,Since I hoped I dared;Everywhere aloneAs a church remain ;Spectre cannot harm.Serpent cannot charm;He deposes doom,Who hath suffered him.
LXVII
A DEED knocks first at thought,And then it knocks at will.That is the manufacturing spot,And will at home and well.
It then goes out an act,Or is entombed so stillThat only to the ear of GodIts doom is audible.
LXVIII
MINE enemy is growing old,—I have at last revenge.The palate of the hate departs;If any would avenge,—
Let him be quick, the viand flits,It is a faded meat.Anger as soon as fed is dead;’T is starving makes it fat.
LXIX
REMORSE is memory awake,Her companies astir,—A presence of departed actsAt window and at door.
Its past set down before the soul,And lighted with a match,Perusal to facilitateOf its condensed despatch.
Remorse is cureless,—the diseaseNot even God can heal;For’t is His institution,—The complement of hell.
LXX
THE body grows outside,—The more convenient way,—That if the spirit like to hide,Its temple stands alway
Ajar, secure, inviting;It never did betrayThe soul that asked its shelterIn timid honesty.
LXXI
UNDUE significance a starving man attachesTo foodFar off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,And therefore good.
Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves usThat spices flyIn the receipt. It was the distanceWas savory.
LXXII
HEART not so heavy as mine.Wending late home,As it passed my windowWhistled itself a tune,—
A careless snatch, a ballad,A ditty of the street;Yet to my irritated earAn anodyne so sweet,
It was as if a bobolink,Sauntering this way,Carolled and mused and carolled,Then bubbled slow away.
It was as if a chirping brookUpon a toilsome waySet bleeding feet to minuetsWithout the knowing why.
To-morrow, night will come again,Weary, perhaps, and sore.Ah, bugle, by my window,I pray you stroll once more!
LXXIII
I MANY times thought peace had come,When peace was far away;As wrecked men deem they sight the landAt centre of the sea,
And struggle slacker, but to prove,As hopelessly as I,How many the fictitious shoresBefore the harbor lie.
LXXIV
UNTO my books so good to turnFar ends of tired days;It half endears the abstinence,And pain is missed in praise.
As flavors cheer retarded guestsWith banquetings to be,So spices stimulate the timeTill my small library.
It may be wilderness without,Far feet of failing men,But holiday excludes the night,And it is bells within.
I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;Their countenances blandEnamour in prospective,And satisfy, obtained.
LXXV
THIS merit hath the worst,—It cannot be again.When Fate hath taunted lastAnd thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe,And glance securely round.The deer invites no longerThan it eludes the hound.
LXXVI
I HAD been hungry all the years;My noon had come, to dine;I, trembling, drew the table near,And touched the curious wine.
’T was this on tables I had seen,When turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,’T was so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature’s dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, ’t was so new,—Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.
LXXVII
I GAINED it so, By climbing slow,By catching at the twigs that growBetween the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.
I said I gained it,— This was all.Look, how I clutch it. Lest it fall,And I a pauper go;Unfitted by an instant’s graceFor the contented beggar’s faceI wore an hour ago.
LXXVIII
TO learn the transport by the pain,As blind men learn the sun;To die of thirst, suspectingThat brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feetUpon a foreign shoreHaunted by native lands, the while,And blue, beloved air—
This is the sovereign anguish,This, the signal woe!These are the patient laureatesWhose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,Inaudible, indeed,To us, the duller scholarsOf the mysterious bard!
LXXIX
I YEARS had been from home,And now, before the door,I dared not open, lest a faceI never saw before
Stare vacant into mineAnd ask my business there.My business,—just a life I left,Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve,I scanned the windows near;The silence like an ocean rolled,And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laughThat I could fear a door,Who danger and the dead had faced,But never quaked before.
I fitted to the latchMy hand, with trembling care,Lest back the awful door should spring,And leave me standing there.
I moved my fingers offAs cautiously as glass,And held my ears, and like a thiefFled gasping from the house.
LXXX
PRAYER is the little implementThrough which men reachWhere presence is denied them.They fling their speech
By means of it in God’s ear;If then He hear,This sums the apparatusComprised in prayer.
LXXXI
I KNOW that he existsSomewhere, in silence.He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.
’T is an instant’s play,’T is a fond ambush,Just to make blissEarn her own surprise!
But should the playProve piercing earnest,Should the glee glazeIn death’s stiff stare,
Would not the funLook too expensive?Would not the jestHave crawled too far?
LXXXII
MUSICIANS wrestle everywhere:All day, among the crowded air, I hear the silver strife;And—waking long before the dawn—Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that “new life!”
It is not bird, it has no nest;Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed, Nor tambourine, nor man;It is not hymn from pulpit read,—The morning stars the treble led On time’s first afternoon!
Some say it is the spheres at play!Some say that bright majority Of vanished dames and men!Some think it service in the placeWhere we, with late, celestial face, Please God, shall ascertain!
LXXXIII
JUST lost when I was saved!Just felt the world go by!Just girt me for the onset with eternity,When breath blew back,And on the other sideI heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,Odd secrets of the line to tell!Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,Some pale reporter from the awful doorsBefore the seal!
Next time, to stay!Next time, the things to seeBy ear unheard,Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,While the ages steal,—Slow tramp the centuries,And the cycles wheel.
LXXXIV
'TIS little I could care for pearls Who own the ample sea;Or brooches, when the Emperor With rubies pelteth me;
Or gold, who am the Prince of Mines; Or diamonds, when I seeA diadem to fit a dome Continual crowning me.
LXXXV
SUPERIORITY to fate Is difficult to learn.’T is not conferred by any, But possible to earn
A pittance at a time, Until, to her surprise,The soul with strict economy Subsists till Paradise.
LXXXVI
HOPE is a subtle glutton; He feeds upon the fair;And yet, inspected closely, What abstinence is there!
His is the halcyon table That never seats but one,And whatsoever is consumed The same amounts remain.
LXXXVII
FORBIDDEN fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks;How luscious lies the pea within The pod that Duty locks!
LXXXVIII
HEAVEN is what I cannot reach!The apple on the tree,Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted groundBehind the hill, the house behind,— There Paradise is found!
LXXXIX
A WORD is deadWhen it is said, Some say.I say it justBegins to live That day.
XC
TO venerate the simple daysWhich lead the seasons by,Needs but to remember That from you or meThey may take the trifle Termed mortality!
To invest existence with a stately air,Needs but to remember That the acorn thereIs the egg of forests For the upper air!
XCI
IT’S such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh;And yet by trades the size of these We men and women die!
XCII
DROWNING is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise.Three times, ’t is said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies,And then declines forever To that abhorred abode Where hope and he part company,— For he is grasped of God.The Maker’s cordial visage, However good to see,Is shunned, we must admit it, Like an adversity.
XCIII
HOW still the bells in steeples stand. Till, swollen with the sky,They leap upon their silver feet In frantic melody!
XCIV
IF the foolish call them “flowers”, Need the wiser tell?If the savants “classify” them, It is just as well!
Those who read the Revelations Must not criticiseThose who read the same edition With beclouded eyes!
Could we stand with that old Moses Canaan denied,—Scan, like him, the stately landscape On the other side,—
Doubtless we should deem superfluous Many sciencesNot pursued by learnèd angels In scholastic skies!
Low amid that glad Belles lettres Grant that we may stand,Stars, amid profound Galaxies, At that grand “Right hand”!
XCV
COULD mortal lip divine The undeveloped freightOf a delivered syllable, ’T would crumble with the weight.
XCVI
MY life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
XCVII
WE never know how high we are Till we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies.
The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.
XCVIII
WHILE I was fearing it, it came, But came with less of fear,Because that fearing it so long Had almost made it dear.There is a fitting a dismay, A fitting a despair.’T is harder knowing it is due, Than knowing it is here.The trying on the utmost, The morning it is new,Is terribler than wearing it A whole existence through.
XCIX
THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away,Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariot That bears a human soul!
C
WHO has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above.God’s residence is next to mine, His furniture is love.
CI
A FACE devoid of love or grace,A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stoneWould feel as thoroughly at easeAs were they old acquaintances,— First time together thrown.
CII
I HAD a guinea golden; I lost it in the sand,And though the sum was simple, And pounds were in the land,Still had it such a value Unto my frugal eye,That when I could not find it I sat me down to sigh.
I had a crimson robin Who sang full many a day,But when the woods were painted He, too, did fly away.Time brought me other robins,— Their ballads were the same,—Still for my missing troubadour I kept the “house at hame.”
I had a star in heaven; One Pleiad was its name.And when I was not heeding It wandered from the same.And though the skies are crowded, And all the night ashine,I do not care about it, Since none of them are mine.
My story has a moral: I have a missing friend,—Pleiad its name, and robin. And guinea in the sand,—And when this mournful ditty, Accompanied with tear,Shall meet the eye of traitor In country far from here,Grant that repentance solemn May seize upon his mind,And he no consolation Beneath the sun may find.
CIII
FROM all the jails the boys and girls Ecstatically leap,—Beloved, only afternoon That prison does n’t keep.
They storm the earth and stun the air, A mob of solid bliss.Alas! that frowns could lie in wait For such a foe as this!
CIV
FEW get enough,— enough is one; To that ethereal throngHave not each one of us the right To stealthily belong?
CV
UPON the gallows hung a wretch, Too sullied for the hellTo which the law entitled him. As nature’s curtain fellThe one who bore him tottered in, For this was woman’s son.“’T was all I had,” she stricken gasped; Oh, what a livid boon!
CVI
I FELT a cleavage in my mind As if my brain had split;I tried to match it, seam by seam, But could not make them fit.
The thought behind I strove to join Unto the thought before,But sequence ravelled out of reach Like balls upon a floor.
CVII
THE reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan;Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
If nature will not tell the tale Jehovah told to her,Can human nature not survive Without a listener?
Admonished by her buckled lips Let every babbler be.The only secret people keep Is Immortality.
CVIII
IF recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not;And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot!And if to miss were merry, And if to mourn were gay,How very blithe the fingers That gathered these to-day!
CIX
THE farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky,And rumbles still, though torrid noons Have lain their missiles by.The lightning that preceded it Struck no one but myself,But I would not exchange the bolt For all the rest of life.Indebtedness to oxygen The chemist may repay,But not the obligation To electricity.It founds the homes and decks the days, And every clamor brightIs but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying light. The thought is quiet as a flake,—A crash without a sound;How life’s reverberationIts explanation found!
CX
ON the bleakness of my lot Bloom I strove to raise.Late, my acre of a rock Yielded grape and maize.
Soil of flint if steadfast tilled Will reward the hand;Seed of palm by Lybian sun Fructified in sand.
CXI
A DOOR just opened on a street— I, lost, was passing by—An instant’s width of warmth disclosed, And wealth, and company.
The door as sudden shut, and I, I, lost, was passing by,—Lost doubly, but by contrast most, Enlightening misery.
CXII
ARE friends delight or pain?Could bounty but remain Riches were good.
But if they only stayBolder to fly away, Riches are sad.
CXIII
ASHES denote that fire was; Respect the grayest pileFor the departed creature’s sake That hovered there awhile.
Fire exists the first in light, And then consolidates,—Only the chemist can disclose Into what carbonates.
CXIV
FATE slew him, but he did not drop She felled—he did not fall—Impaled him on her fiercest stakes — He neutralized them all.
She stung him, sapped his firm advance, But, when her worst was done,And he, unmoved, regarded her, Acknowledged him a man.
CXV
FINITE to fail, but infinite to venture. For the one ship that struts the shoreMany’s the gallant, overwhelmed creature Nodding in navies nevermore.
CXVI
I MEASURE every grief I meet With analytic eyes;I wonder if it weighs like mine, Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long, Or did it just begin?I could not tell the date of mine, It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between. They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled— Some thousands—on the causeOf early hurt, if such a lapse Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still Through centuries above,Enlightened to a larger pain By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told; The reason deeper lies,—Death is but one and comes but once, And only nails the eyes.
There’s grief of want, and grief of cold,— A sort they call “despair”;There’s banishment from native eyes, In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind Correctly, yet to meA piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross, Of those that stand alone,Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own.
CXVII
I HAVE a king who does not speak;So, wondering, thro’ the hours meekI trudge the day away,—Half glad when it is night and sleep,If, haply, thro’ a dream to peep In parlors shut by day.
And if I do, when morning comes,It is as if a hundred drums Did round my pillow roll,And shouts fill all my childish sky,And bells keep saying “victory” From steeples in my soul!
And if I don’t, the little BirdWithin the Orchard is not heard, And I omit to pray,“Father, thy will be done” to-day,For my will goes the other way, And it were perjury!
CXVIII
IT dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground,And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less Than I reviled myselfFor entertaining plated wares Upon my silver shelf.
CXIX
TO lose one’s faith surpasses The loss of an estate,Because estates can be Replenished,—faith cannot.
Inherited with life, Belief but once can be;Annihilate a single clause, And Being’s beggary.
CXX
I HAD a daily bliss I half indifferent viewed,Till sudden I perceived it stir,— It grew as I pursued,
Till when, around a crag, It wasted from my sight,Enlarged beyond my utmost scope, I learned its sweetness right.
CXXI
I WORKED for chaff, and earning wheat Was haughty and betrayed.What right had fields to arbitrate In matters ratified?
I tasted wheat,—and hated chaff, And thanked the ample friend;Wisdom is more becoming viewed At distance than at hand.
CXXII
LIFE, and Death, and GiantsSuch as these, are still.Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill,Beetle at the candle, Or a fife’s small fame,Maintain by accident That they proclaim.
CXXIII
OUR lives are Swiss,—So still, so cool, Till, some odd afternoon,The Alps neglect their curtains, And we look farther on. Italy stands the other side, While, like a guard between,The solemn Alps,The siren Alps, Forever intervene!
CXXIV
REMEMBRANCE has a rear and front,— 'T is something like a house;It has a garret also For refuse and the mouse,
Besides, the deepest cellar That ever mason hewed;Look to it, by its fathoms Ourselves be not pursued.
CXXV
TO hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to findThat such was not the posture Of our immortal mind,
Affords the sly presumption That, in so dense a fuzz,You, too, take cobweb attitudes Upon a plane of gauze!
CXXVI
THE brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side,The one the other will include With ease, and you beside.
The brain is deeper than the sea, For, hold them, blue to blue,The one the other will absorb, As sponges, buckets do.
The brain is just the weight of God, For, lift them, pound for pound,And they will differ, if they do, As syllable from sound.
CXXVII
THE bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that?It is not fit for table, For beggar, or for cat.
A bone has obligations, A being has the same;A marrowless assembly Is culpabler than shame.
But how shall finished creatures A function fresh obtain?—Old Nicodemus’ phantom Confronting us again!
CXXVIII
THE past is such a curious creature, To look her in the faceA transport may reward us, Or a disgrace.
Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly!Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!
CXXIX
TO help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given,Which if they do not fit for earth Drill silently for heaven.
CXXX
WHAT soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are!One would as soon assault a plush Or violate a star.
Such dimity convictions, A horror so refinedOf freckled human nature, Of Deity ashamed,—
It’s such a common glory, A fisherman’s degree!Redemption, brittle lady, Be so, ashamed of thee.
CXXXI
WHO never wanted,—maddest joy Remains to him unknown;The banquet of abstemiousness Surpasses that of wine.
Within its hope, though yet ungrasped Desire’s perfect goal,No nearer, lest reality Should disenthrall thy soul.
CXXXII
IT might be easier To fail with land in sight,Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight.
CXXXIII
YOU cannot put a fire out; A thing that can igniteCan go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer,—Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor.
CXXXIV
A MODEST lot, a fame petite,A brief campaign of sting and sweetIs plenty! Is enough!A sailor’s business is the shore, A soldier’s—balls. Who asketh moreMust seek the neighboring life!
CXXXV
IS bliss, then, such abyssI must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe?
I’d rather suit my footThan save my boot,For yet to buy another pairIs possibleAt any fair.
But bliss is sold just once;The patent lostNone buy it any more.
CXXXVI
I STEPPED from plank to plank So slow and cautiously;The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.
I knew not but the next Would be my final inch,—This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.
CXXXVII
ONE day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day,Celebrated part at table, Part in memory.
Neither patriarch nor pussy, I dissect the play;Seems it, to my hooded thinking, Reflex holiday.
Had there been no sharp subtraction From the early sum,Not an acre or a caption Where was once a room,
Not a mention, whose small pebble Wrinkled any bay,—Unto such, were such assembly, ’Twere Thanksgiving day.
CXXXVIII
SOFTENED by Time’s consummate plush, How sleek the woe appearsThat threatened childhood’s citadel And undermined the years!
Bisected now by bleaker griefs, We envy the despairThat devastated childhood’s realm, So easy to repair.