Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 2

THE SECRET.

Some things that fly there be, -- Birds, hours, the b.u.mble-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!

XV.

THE LONELY HOUSE.

I know some lonely houses off the road A robber 'd like the look of, -- Wooden barred, And windows hanging low, Inviting to A portico, Where two could creep: One hand the tools, The other peep To make sure all's asleep.

Old-fas.h.i.+oned eyes, Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, With just a clock, -- But they could gag the tick, And mice won't bark; And so the walls don't tell, None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir -- An almanac's aware.

Was it the mat winked, Or a nervous star?

The moon slides down the stair To see who's there.

There's plunder, -- where?

Tankard, or spoon, Earring, or stone, A watch, some ancient brooch To match the grandmamma, Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too, Stealth's slow; The sun has got as far As the third sycamore.

Screams chanticleer, "Who's there?"

And echoes, trains away, Sneer -- "Where?"

While the old couple, just astir, Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI.

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

XVII.

DAWN.

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the s.p.a.ces, It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.

XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid; How many times they bore The faithful witness, Till we are helped, As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith That shone above the f.a.got; Clear strains of hymn The river could not drown; Brave names of men And celestial women, Pa.s.sed out of record Into renown!

XIX.

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

XX.

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When b.u.t.terflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun!