Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 39

Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one's own self encounter In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; a.s.sa.s.sin, hid in our apartment, Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O'erlooking a superior spectre More near.

x.x.x.

VANISHED.

She died, -- this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

x.x.xI.

PRECEDENCE.

Wait till the majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow!

Almost a powdered footman Might dare to touch it now!

Wait till in everlasting robes This democrat is dressed, Then prate about "preferment"

And "station" and the rest!

Around this quiet courtier Obsequious angels wait!

Full royal is his retinue, Full purple is his state!

A lord might dare to lift the hat To such a modest clay, Since that my Lord, "the Lord of lords"

Receives unblus.h.i.+ngly!

x.x.xII.

GONE.

Went up a year this evening!

I recollect it well!

Amid no bells nor bravos The bystanders will tell!

Cheerful, as to the village, Tranquil, as to repose, Chastened, as to the chapel, This humble tourist rose.

Did not talk of returning, Alluded to no time When, were the gales propitious, We might look for him; Was grateful for the roses In life's diverse bouquet, Talked softly of new species To pick another day.

Beguiling thus the wonder, The wondrous nearer drew; Hands bustled at the moorings -- The crowd respectful grew.

Ascended from our vision To countenances new!

A difference, a daisy, Is all the rest I knew!

x.x.xIII.

REQUIEM.

Taken from men this morning, Carried by men to-day, Met by the G.o.ds with banners Who marshalled her away.

One little maid from playmates, One little mind from school, -- There must be guests in Eden; All the rooms are full.

Far as the east from even, Dim as the border star, -- Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms, Our departed are.

x.x.xIV.

What inn is this Where for the night Peculiar traveller comes?

Who is the landlord?

Where the maids?

Behold, what curious rooms!

No ruddy fires on the hearth, No br.i.m.m.i.n.g tankards flow.

Necromancer, landlord, Who are these below?

x.x.xV.

It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bells Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl, -- Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key; And 't was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped, And s.p.a.ce stares, all around, Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos, -- stopless, cool, -- Without a chance or spar, Or even a report of land To justify despair.