Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 14

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?

Not death; for who is he?

The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me.

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity's decree.

Of resurrection? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead?

As soon impeach my crown!

XXV.

DYING.

The sun kept setting, setting still; No hue of afternoon Upon the village I perceived, -- From house to house 't was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still; No dew upon the gra.s.s, But only on my forehead stopped, And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still, My fingers were awake; Yet why so little sound myself Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!

I could not see it now.

'T is dying, I am doing; but I'm not afraid to know.

XXVI.

Two swimmers wrestled on the spar Until the morning sun, When one turned smiling to the land.

O G.o.d, the other one!

The stray s.h.i.+ps pa.s.sing spied a face Upon the waters borne, With eyes in death still begging raised, And hands beseeching thrown.

XXVII.

THE CHARIOT.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.

We pa.s.sed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We pa.s.sed the fields of gazing grain, We pa.s.sed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

XXVIII.

She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower.

Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour!

She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer's eve; Less skilful than Leverrier It's sorer to believe!

XXIX.

RESURGAM.

At last to be identified!

At last, the lamps upon thy side, The rest of life to see!

Past midnight, past the morning star!

Past sunrise! Ah! what leagues there are Between our feet and day!

x.x.x.

Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown;

Except for winds, provincial; Except by b.u.t.terflies, Unnoticed as a single dew That on the acre lies.

The smallest housewife in the gra.s.s, Yet take her from the lawn, And somebody has lost the face That made existence home!

x.x.xI.

Death is a dialogue between The spirit and the dust.

"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir, I have another trust."