Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series — Context and Discussion

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.

NOTE. -- This poem may have had, like many others, a personal origin. It is more than probable that it was sent to some friend travelling in Europe, a dainty reminder of letter-writing delinquencies.

From all the jails the boys and girls Ecstatically leap, -- Beloved, only afternoon That prison doesn'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!

Few get enough, -- enough is one; To that ethereal throng Have not each one of us the right To stealthily belong?

Upon the gallows hung a wretch, Too sullied for the hell To which the law entitled him. As nature's curtain fell The 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!

I felt a clearing 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.

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.

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!

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 bright Is but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying light. The thought is quiet as a flake, -- A crash without a sound; How life's reverberation Its explanation found!

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.

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.

Are friends delight or pain? Could bounty but remain Riches were good.

But if they only stay Bolder to fly away, Riches are sad.

Ashes denote that fire was; Respect the grayest pile For 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.

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.

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture. For the one ship that struts the shore Many's the gallant, overwhelmed creature Nodding in navies nevermore.

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 cause Of 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 me A 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.

I have a king who does not speak; So, wondering, thro' the hours meek I 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 Bird Within 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!

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 myself For entertaining plated wares Upon my silver shelf.

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.

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.

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.

Life, and Death, and Giants Such 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.

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!

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.

To hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to find That 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!

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.

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!

The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the face A transport may reward us, Or a disgrace.

Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly! Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!

To help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given, Which if they do not fit for earth Drill silently for heaven.

What soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are! One would as soon assault a plush Or violate a star.

Such dimity convictions, A horror so refined Of freckled human nature, Of Deity ashamed, --

It's such a common glory, A fisherman's degree! Redemption, brittle lady, Be so, ashamed of thee.

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.

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight.

You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can 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.

A modest lot, a fame petite, A brief campaign of sting and sweet Is plenty! Is enough! A sailor's business is the shore, A soldier's -- balls. Who asketh more Must seek the neighboring life!

Is bliss, then, such abyss I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe?

I'd rather suit my foot Than save my boot, For yet to buy another pair Is possible At any fair.

But bliss is sold just once; The patent lost None buy it any more.

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.

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, 'T were Thanksgiving day.

Softened by Time's consummate plush, How sleek the woe appears That threatened childhood's citadel And undermined the years!

Bisected now by bleaker griefs, We envy the despair That devastated childhood's realm, So easy to repair.

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

My worthiness is all my doubt, His merit all my fear, Contrasting which, my qualities Do lowlier appear;

Lest I should insufficient prove For his beloved need, The chiefest apprehension Within my loving creed.

So I, the undivine abode Of his elect content, Conform my soul as 't were a church Unto her sacrament.

Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath.

One blessing had I, than the rest So larger to my eyes That I stopped gauging, satisfied, For this enchanted size.

It was the limit of my dream, The focus of my prayer, -- A perfect, paralyzing bliss Contented as despair.

I knew no more of want or cold, Phantasms both become, For this new value in the soul, Supremest earthly sum.

The heaven below the heaven above Obscured with ruddier hue. Life's latitude leant over-full; The judgment perished, too.

Why joys so scantily disburse, Why Paradise defer, Why floods are served to us in bowls, -- I speculate no more.

When roses cease to bloom, dear, And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that paused to gather Upon this summer's day Will idle lie, in Auburn, -- Then take my flower, pray!

Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done!

For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o'er! Pray gather me, Anemone, Thy flower forevermore!

Split the lark and you'll find the music, Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled, Scantily dealt to the summer morning, Saved for your ear when lutes be old.

Loose the flood, you shall find it patent, Gush after gush, reserved for you; Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas, Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. 'T is true the drought is destitute, But then I had the dew!

The Caspian has its realms of sand, Its other realm of sea; Without the sterile perquisite No Caspian could be.

Poor little heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

Proud little heart! Did they forsake thee? Be debonair! Be debonair!

Frail little heart! I would not break thee: Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?

Gay little heart! Like morning glory Thou'll wilted be; thou'll wilted be!

There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man. It hurls its barbed syllables,-- At once is mute again. But where it fell The saved will tell On patriotic day, Some epauletted brother Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun, Wherever roams the day, There is its noiseless onset, There is its victory!

Behold the keenest marksman! The most accomplished shot! Time's sublimest target Is a soul 'forgot'!

I've got an arrow here; Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere.

Fell, they will say, in 'skirmish'! Vanquished, my soul will know, By but a simple arrow Sped by an archer's bow.

He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow, By fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten, Your brain to bubble cool, -- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you're lagging, I may remember him!

Father, I bring thee not myself, -- That were the little load; I bring thee the imperial heart I had not strength to hold.

The heart I cherished in my own Till mine too heavy grew, Yet strangest, heavier since it went, Is it too large for you?

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.

Not with a club the heart is broken, Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see it. I've known

To lash the magic creature Till it fell, Yet that whip's name too noble Then to tell.

Magnanimous of bird By boy descried, To sing unto the stone Of which it died.

My friend must be a bird, Because it flies! Mortal my friend must be, Because it dies! Barbs has it, like a bee. Ah, curious friend, Thou puzzlest me!

He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast. It was a boundless place to me, And silenced, as the awful sea Puts minor streams to rest.

And now, I'm different from before, As if I breathed superior air, Or brushed a royal gown; My feet, too, that had wandered so, My gypsy face transfigured now To tenderer renown.

Let me not mar that perfect dream By an auroral stain, But so adjust my daily night That it will come again.

I live with him, I see his face; I go no more away For visitor, or sundown; Death's single privacy,

The only one forestalling mine, And that by right that he Presents a claim invisible, No wedlock granted me.

I live with him, I hear his voice, I stand alive to-day To witness to the certainty Of immortality

Taught me by Time, -- the lower way, Conviction every day, -- That life like this is endless, Be judgment what it may.

I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills

That gaze upon his journey; How easy all can see What is forbidden utterly As heaven, unto me!

I envy nests of sparrows That dot his distant eaves, The wealthy fly upon his pane, The happy, happy leaves

That just abroad his window Have summer's leave to be, The earrings of Pizarro Could not obtain for me.

I envy light that wakes him, And bells that boldly ring To tell him it is noon abroad, -- Myself his noon could bring,

Yet interdict my blossom And abrogate my bee, Lest noon in everlasting night Drop Gabriel and me.

A solemn thing it was, I said, A woman white to be, And wear, if God should count me fit, Her hallowed mystery.

A timid thing to drop a life Into the purple well, Too plummetless that it come back Eternity until.

The springtime's pallid landscape Will glow like bright bouquet, Though drifted deep in parian The village lies to-day.

The lilacs, bending many a year, With purple load will hang; The bees will not forget the tune Their old forefathers sang.

The rose will redden in the bog, The aster on the hill Her everlasting fashion set, And covenant gentians frill,

Till summer folds her miracle As women do their gown, Or priests adjust the symbols When sacrament is done.

She slept beneath a tree Remembered but by me. I touched her cradle mute; She recognized the foot, Put on her carmine suit, -- And see!

A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest tree Upon the furthest slope we know; It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step, Or noons report away, Without the formula of sound, It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss Affecting our content, As trade had suddenly encroached Upon a sacrament.

A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps!

The tidy breezes with their brooms Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! Prithee, my pretty housewives! Who may expected be?

The neighbors do not yet suspect! The woods exchange a smile -- Orchard, and buttercup, and bird -- In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands, How nonchalant the wood, As if the resurrection Were nothing very odd!

Dear March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat -- You must have walked -- How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the birds'; The maples never knew That you were coming, -- I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me -- And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.