Poems by Emily Dickinson Second Series

by Emily Dickinson

  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 crowd respectful grew.

  Ascended from our vision

  To countenances new!

  A difference, a daisy,

  Is all the rest I knew!

  XXXIII. REQUIEM.

  TAKEN from men this morning,

  Carried by men to-day,

  Met by the gods with banners

  Who marshalled her away.

  One little maid from playmates,

  One little mind from school, --

  There must be guests in Eden;

  All the rooms are full.

  Far as the east from even,

  Dim as the border star, --

  Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,

  Our departed are.

  XXXIV.

  WHAT inn is this

  Where for the night

  Peculiar traveller comes?

  Who is the landlord?

  Where the maids?

  Behold, what curious rooms!

  No ruddy fires on the hearth,

  No brimming tankards flow.

  Necromancer, landlord,

  Who are these below?

  XXXV.

  IT was not death, for I stood up,

  And all the dead lie down;

  It was not night, for all the bells

  Put out their tongues, for noon.

  It was not frost, for on my flesh

  I felt siroccos crawl, --

  Nor fire, for just my marble feet

  Could keep a chancel cool.

  And yet it tasted like them all;

  The figures I have seen

  Set orderly, for burial,

  Reminded me of mine,

  As if my life were shaven

  And fitted to a frame,

  And could not breathe without a key;

  And 't was like midnight, some,

  When everything that ticked has stopped,

  And space stares, all around,

  Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,

  Repeal the beating ground.

  But most like chaos, -- stopless, cool, --

  Without a chance or spar,

  Or even a report of land

  To justify despair.

  XXXVI. TILL THE END.

  I SHOULD not dare to leave my friend,

  Because -- because if he should die

  While I was gone, and I -- too late --

  Should reach the heart that wanted me;

  If I should disappoint the eyes

  That hunted, hunted so, to see,

  And could not bear to shut until

  They "noticed" me -- they noticed me;

  If I should stab the patient faith

  So sure I 'd come -- so sure I 'd come,

  It listening, listening, went to sleep

  Telling my tardy name, --

  My heart would wish it broke before,

  Since breaking then, since breaking then,

  Were useless as next morning's sun,

  Where midnight frosts had lain!

  XXXVII. VOID.

  GREAT streets of silence led away

  To neighborhoods of pause;

  Here was no notice, no dissent,

  No universe, no laws.

  By clocks 't was morning, and for night

  The bells at distance called;

  But epoch had no basis here,

  For period exhaled.

  XXXVIII.

  A THROE upon the features

  A hurry in the breath,

  An ecstasy of parting

  Denominated "Death," --

  An anguish at the mention,

  Which, when to patience grown,

  I 've known permission given

  To rejoin its own.

  XXXIX. SAVED!

  OF tribulation these are they

  Denoted by the white;

  The spangled gowns, a lesser rank

  Of victors designate.

  All these did conquer; but the ones

  Who overcame most times

  Wear nothing commoner than snow,

  No ornament but palms.

  Surrender is a sort unknown

  On this superior soil;

  Defeat, an outgrown anguish,

  Remembered as the mile

  Our panting ankle barely gained

  When night devoured the road;

  But we stood whispering in the house,

  And all we said was "Saved"!

  XL.

  I THINK just how my shape will rise

  When I shall be forgiven,

  Till hair and eyes and timid head

  Are out of sight, in heaven.

  I think just how my lips will weigh

  With shapeless, quivering prayer

  That you, so late, consider me,

  The sparrow of your care.

  I mind me that of anguish sent,

  Some drifts were moved away

  Before my simple bosom broke, --

  And why not this, if they?

  And so, until delirious borne

  I con that thing, -- "forgiven," --

  Till with long fright and longer trust

  I drop my heart, unshriven!

  XLI. THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.

  AFTER a hundred years

  Nobody knows the place, --

  Agony, that enacted there,

  Motionless as peace.

  Weeds triumphant ranged,

  Strangers strolled and spelled

  At the lone orthography

  Of the elder dead.

  Winds of summer fields

  Recollect the way, --

  Instinct picking up the key

  Dropped by memory.

  XLII.

  LAY this laurel on the one

  Too intrinsic for renown.

  Laurel! veil your deathless tree, --

  Him you chasten, that is he!