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< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems VIII. I Have Not Told My Garden Yet I have not told my garden yet, Lest that should conquer me; I have not quite the strength now To break it to the bee. I will not name it in the street, For shops would stare, that I, So shy, […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems VII. I Read My Sentence Steadily I read my sentence steadily, Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause, — The date, and manner of the shame; And then the pious form That “God have mercy” on the soul The jury […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems III. At Least to Pray Is Left At least to pray is left, is left. O Jesus! in the air I know not which thy chamber is, — I ‘m knocking everywhere. Thou stirrest earthquake in the South, And maelstrom in the sea; Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Hast […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems II. Going to Heaven Going to heaven! I don’t know when, Pray do not ask me how, — Indeed, I ‘m too astonished To think of answering you! Going to heaven! — How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems I. Let Down The Bars, O Death! Let down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done. Thine is the stillest night, Thine the securest fold; Too near thou art for seeking thee, Too tender to be told. -Emily […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems L. The Snow THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, — Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLIX. Besides the Autumn Poets Sing NOVEMBER. Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. A few incisive mornings, A few ascetic eyes, — Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod, And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves. Still is the […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLVII. Summer’s Obsequies SUMMER’S OBSEQUIES. The gentian weaves her fringes, The maple’s loom is red. My departing blossoms Obviate parade. A brief, but patient illness, An hour to prepare; And one, below this morning, Is where the angels are. It was a short procession, — The bobolink was there, […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLV. As Imperceptibly As Grief As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy. A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, — A courteous, yet […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLIV. Further in Summer MY CRICKET. Further in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive mass. No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness. Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLII. Bring Me the Sunset Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up, And say how many dew; Tell me how far the morning leaps, Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue! Write me how many notes there be […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XL. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms She sweeps with many-colored brooms, And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in, You dropped an amber thread; And now you ‘ve littered all the East With duds […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXVI. Frequently the Woods Are Pink Frequently the woods are pink, Frequently are brown; Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see, And as oft a cranny Where it used to be. And the earth, they tell me, On […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXIII. Simplicity SIMPLICITY. How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn’t care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXI. Nature Rarer Uses Yellow Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, — Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic Representations of  “Nature Rarer Uses Yellow” […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXX. The Wind’s Visit THE WIND’S VISIT. The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, “Come in,” I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air. No bone […]