Emily Dickinson

  • I Never saw a moor,
      I never saw the sea;
    Yet know I how the heather looks,
      And what a wave must be.

    I never spake with God,
      Nor visited in heaven;
    Yet certain am I of the spot
      As if the chart were given.

  • Belshazzar had a letter,—
    He never had but one;
    Belshazzar’s correspondent
    Concluded and begun
    In that immortal copy
    The conscience of us all
    Can read without its glasses
    On revelation’s wall.

  • Will there really be a morning?
    Is there such a thing as day?
    Could I see it from the mountains
    If I were as tall as they?
    Has it feet like water lilies?
    Has it feathers like a bird?
    Is it brought from famous countries
    Of which I ’ve never...

  • Too late
    delayed till she had ceased to know,
    Delayed till in its vest of snow
      Her loving bosom lay:
    An hour behind the fleeting breath,
    Later by just an hour than death,—
      Oh, lagging yesterday!

    Could she have guessed that it would be...

  • The waking YEAR
    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 vail, and hill, and tree!
    Prithee, my pretty housewives!

  • Choice
    of all the souls that stand create
    I have elected one.
    When sense from spirit files away,
    And subterfuge is done;

    When that which is and that which was
    Apart, intrinsic, stand,
    And this brief tragedy of flesh
    Is shifted like...

  • Life
    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,

    A BOOK

  • 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!

  • It's all I have to bring today--
    This, and my heart beside--
    This, and my heart, and all the fields--
    And all the meadows wide--
    Be sure you count--should I forget
    Some one the sum could tell--
    This, and my heart, and all the Bees
    Which in the Clover dwell.

  • To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
    All other hearts I knew.
    ‘Tis true the drought is destitute
    But, then, I had the dew!
    The Caspian has its realms of sand,
    Its other realm of sea.
    Without this sterile perquisite
    No Caspian could be.