Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 56

Then they will hasten to the door To call the little child, Who cannot thank them, for the ice That on her lisping piled.

X.

IMMORTALITY.

It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one's hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street,

That we've immortal place, Though pyramids decay, And kingdoms, like the orchard, Flit russetly away.

XI.

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.

And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.

XII.

How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account Have settled with the year! -- Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial.

Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality, Bequeaths him to the night.

In deference to him Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!

XIII.

DEATH.

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be.

Bait it with the balsam, Seek it with the knife, Baffle, if it cost you Everything in life.

Then, if it have burrowed Out of reach of skill, Ring the tree and leave it, -- 'T is the vermin's will.

XIV.

UNWARNED.

'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou No station in the day?

'T was not thy wont to hinder so, -- Retrieve thine industry.

'T is noon, my little maid, alas!

And art thou sleeping yet?

The lily waiting to be wed, The bee, dost thou forget?

My little maid, 't is night; alas, That night should be to thee Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet, I might have aided thee.

XV.

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

XVI.

Not any higher stands the grave For heroes than for men; Not any nearer for the child Than numb three-score and ten.

This latest leisure equal lulls The beggar and his queen; Propitiate this democrat By summer's gracious mien.

XVII.

ASLEEP.

As far from pity as complaint, As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation As if my trade were bone.

As far from time as history, As near yourself to-day As children to the rainbow's scarf, Or sunset's yellow play

To eyelids in the sepulchre.

How still the dancer lies, While color's revelations break, And blaze the b.u.t.terflies!