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< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXIX. The One That Could Repeat the Summer Day The one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be. And who could reproduce the sun, At period of going down — The lingering and the stain, I mean — When […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXVIII. I Know A Place Where Summer Strives I know a place where summer strives With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies back, Recording briefly, “Lost.” But when the south wind stirs the pools And struggles in the lanes, Her heart misgives her for her […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXVII. A Spider THE SPIDER. A spider sewed at night Without a light Upon an arc of white. If ruff it was of dame Or shroud of gnome, Himself, himself inform. Of immortality His strategy Was physiognomy. -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic Representations of  “A Spider” by Emily Dickinson   […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXVI. There Came a Wind Like A Bugle THE STORM. There came a wind like a bugle; It quivered through the grass, And a green chill upon the heat So ominous did pass We barred the windows and the doors As from an emerald ghost; The doom’s electric moccason […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXIV. The Snake THE SNAKE. A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him, — did you not, His notice sudden is. The grass divides as with a comb, A spotted shaft is seen; And then it closes at your feet And opens further on. […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XX. A Tempest A TEMPEST. An awful tempest mashed the air, The clouds were gaunt and few; A black, as of a spectre’s cloak, Hid heaven and earth from view. The creatures chuckled on the roofs And whistled in the air, And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth. […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XIX. By the Sea BY THE SEA. I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me, And frigates in the upper floor Extended hempen hands, Presuming me to be a mouse Aground, upon the sands. But no […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XVIII. Two Butterflies Went Out At Noon TWO VOYAGERS. Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the firmament And rested on a beam; And then together bore away Upon a shining sea, — Though never yet, in any port, Their coming […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XVII. Who Robbed the Woods Who robbed the woods, The trusting woods? The unsuspecting trees Brought out their burrs and mosses His fantasy to please. He scanned their trinkets, curious, He grasped, he bore away. What will the solemn hemlock, What will the fir-tree say? -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XVI. The Skies Can’t Keep Their Secret SECRETS. The skies can’t keep their secret! They tell it to the hills — The hills just tell the orchards — And they the daffodils! A bird, by chance, that goes that way Soft overheard the whole. If I should bribe the […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XV. A Route of Evanescence THE HUMMING-BIRD. A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head, — The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning’s ride. -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic Representations of […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XIV. I Dreaded That First Robin So IN SHADOW. I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I ‘m accustomed to him grown, — He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live Till that first shout got by, Not all pianos […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XIII. The Oriole THE ORIOLE. One of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal, The blissful oriole. So drunk, he disavows it With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For an alighting mine. A pleader, a dissembler, An epicure, a […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XII. The Orilole’s Secret THE ORIOLE’S SECRET. To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine. It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd. The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair. So […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XI. My Rose MY ROSE. Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees’ exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As […]