Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 15

Death doubts it, argues from the ground.

The Spirit turns away, Just laying off, for evidence, An overcoat of clay.

x.x.xII.

It was too late for man, But early yet for G.o.d; Creation impotent to help, But prayer remained our side.

How excellent the heaven, When earth cannot be had; How hospitable, then, the face Of our old neighbor, G.o.d!

x.x.xIII.

ALONG THE POTOMAC.

When I was small, a woman died.

To-day her only boy Went up from the Potomac, His face all victory,

To look at her; how slowly The seasons must have turned Till bullets clipt an angle, And he pa.s.sed quickly round!

If pride shall be in Paradise I never can decide; Of their imperial conduct, No person testified.

But proud in apparition, That woman and her boy Pa.s.s back and forth before my brain, As ever in the sky.

x.x.xIV.

The daisy follows soft the sun, And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet.

He, waking, finds the flower near.

"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"

"Because, sir, love is sweet!"

We are the flower, Thou the sun!

Forgive us, if as days decline, We nearer steal to Thee, -- Enamoured of the parting west, The peace, the flight, the amethyst, Night's possibility!

x.x.xV.

EMANc.i.p.aTION.

No rack can torture me, My soul's at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one

You cannot p.r.i.c.k with saw, Nor rend with scymitar.

Two bodies therefore be; Bind one, and one will flee.

The eagle of his nest No easier divest And gain the sky, Than mayest thou,

Except thyself may be Thine enemy; Captivity is consciousness, So's liberty.

x.x.xVI.

LOST.

I lost a world the other day.

Has anybody found?

You'll know it by the row of stars Around its forehead bound.

A rich man might not notice it; Yet to my frugal eye Of more esteem than ducats.

Oh, find it, sir, for me!

x.x.xVII.

If I shouldn't be alive When the robins come, Give the one in red cravat A memorial crumb.

If I couldn't thank you, Being just asleep, You will know I'm trying With my granite lip!

x.x.xVIII.

Sleep is supposed to be, By souls of sanity, The shutting of the eye.

Sleep is the station grand Down which on either hand The hosts of witness stand!

Morn is supposed to be, By people of degree, The breaking of the day.

Morning has not occurred!