The Secret (Dickinson)
by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) English
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 !
More poems by Emily Dickinson
-
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— …
-
There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — …
-
A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil …
-
There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …
All poems by Emily Dickinson →