Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 46

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat Was haughty and betrayed.

What right had fields to arbitrate In matters ratified?

I tasted wheat, -- and hated chaff, And thanked the ample friend; Wisdom is more becoming viewed At distance than at hand.

x.x.xIX.

Life, and Death, and Giants Such as these, are still.

Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill, Beetle at the candle, Or a fife's small fame, Maintain by accident That they proclaim.

XL.

ALPINE GLOW.

Our lives are Swiss, -- So still, so cool, Till, some odd afternoon, The Alps neglect their curtains, And we look farther on.

Italy stands the other side, While, like a guard between, The solemn Alps, The siren Alps, Forever intervene!

XLI.

REMEMBRANCE.

Remembrance has a rear and front, -- 'T is something like a house; It has a garret also For refuse and the mouse,

Besides, the deepest cellar That ever mason hewed; Look to it, by its fathoms Ourselves be not pursued.

XLII.

To hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind,

Affords the sly presumption That, in so dense a fuzz, You, too, take cobweb att.i.tudes Upon a plane of gauze!

XLIII.

THE BRAIN.

The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea, For, hold them, blue to blue, The one the other will absorb, As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of G.o.d, For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will differ, if they do, As syllable from sound.

XLIV.

The bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that?

It is not fit for table, For beggar, or for cat.

A bone has obligations, A being has the same; A marrowless a.s.sembly Is culpabler than shame.

But how shall finished creatures A function fresh obtain? -- Old Nicodemus' phantom Confronting us again!

XLV.

THE PAST.

The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the face A transport may reward us, Or a disgrace.

Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly!

Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!

XLVI.

To help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given, Which if they do not fit for earth Drill silently for heaven.