If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.
Heart, we will forget him,You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.
The Heart wants what it wants – or else it does not care
That I shall love always, I argue theethat love is life,and life hath immortality
We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.
That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant–Success in Circuit liesToo bright for our infirm DelightThe Truth’s superb surpriseAs Lightning to the Children easedWith explanation kindThe Truth must dazzle graduallyOr every man be blind–
Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant/Success in Circuit lies…
A charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld,—The lady dare not lift her veilFor fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh,And wishes, and denies,—Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.
A great hope fellYou heard no noiseThe ruin was within.
Impossibility, like wineExhilarates the manWho tastes it; PossibilityIs flavoreless.
She died–this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.
I wonder if it hurts to live,And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between,They would not rather die.
My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,–The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity
There is a pain – so utter – It swallows substance up – Then covers the Abyss with Trance – So Memory can step Around – across – opon it – As one within a Swoon – Goes safely – where an open eye – Would drop Him – Bone by Bone.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They ’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!
There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul.
PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there’s a word to lift your hat to… to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that’s the genius behind poetry.
He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!
There’s a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.
Wild Nights – Wild Nights!Were I with theeWild Nights should beOur luxury!Futile – the winds –To a heart in port –Done with the compass –Done with the chart!Rowing in Eden –Ah, the sea!Might I moor – Tonight –In thee!
Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.
I stepped from Plank to PlankSo slow and cautiouslyThe Stars about my Head I felt,About my Feet the Sea.I knew not but the nextWould be my final inch —This gave me that precarious GaitSome call Experience.
This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
Mine Enemy is growing old –I have at last Revenge –The Palate of the Hate departs –If any would avenge Let him be quick — the Viand flits –It is a faded Meat –Anger as soon as fed is dead –‘Tis starving makes it fat
I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy; I said: “‘T will keep.”I woke and chid my honest fingers,—The gem was gone; And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.
To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—
Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye….
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.
Success is counted sweetest by those ne’er succeed.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, Earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.
Faith is a fine inventionWhen gentlemen can see,But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency.
The Truth must dazzle graduallyOr every man be blind – Emily Dickinson
THERE is no frigate like a book/ To take us lands away…
Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature’s West –
I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
This is my letter to the worldThat never wrote to me
Bless God, he went as soldiers,His musket on his breast—Grant God, he charge the bravestOf all the martial blest!Please God, might I behold himIn epauletted white—I should not fear the foe then—I should not fear the fight!
Not “Revelation” – tis – that waitsBut our unfurnished eyes –
THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire,He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her.Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door,To seek for the accomplished guest, — Her visitor no more.
Nature is a haunted house–but Art–is a house that tries to be haunted.
Water is taught by thirst;Land, by the oceans passed;Transport, by throe;Peace, by its battles told;Love, by memorial mould;Birds, by the snow.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.
and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground – because I am afraid –
Split the Lark—and you’ll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled.
Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI’ve known
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.The thought behind, I strove to joinUnto the thought before—But Sequence ravelled out of SoundLike Balls—upon a Floor.
We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.
And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze,Without my right of frost, Death’s privilege?
Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember him!
To lose what we never owned might seem an eccentric Bereavement but Presumption has its Affliction as actually as Claim —
When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is ‘acquainted with Grief’, we listen, for that also is an Acquaintance of our own.
I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size.
The possible’s slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.
I HIDE myself within my flowerThat wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too—And angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness…
I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.
Parting is all we know of Heaven,and all we need of Hell.
In snow thou comestThou shalt go with resuming groundThe sweet derision of thx crowAnd Glee’s advancing sound
In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, ―Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I.Upon an August day?
Anger as soon as fed is dead- ‘Tis starving makes it fat.
Truth is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it,
I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, ’twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any one I knewWere going — I had often thoughtHow noteless — I could die —
It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the Dead, lie down—It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their Tongues, for Noon.
Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul…
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.
Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door.
The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.
Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a “Diver” – Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.
Hunger is a wayOf standing outside windowsThe entering takes away.
Or help one fainting RobinUnto his Nest againI shall not live in vain.
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.
There’s nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and if there is I don’t want to know it.
Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.
Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own.
Anger as soon as fed is dead – Tis starving makes it fat.
Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me – The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.
Fame is a bee It has a song – It has a sting – Ah too it has a wing.
Anger as soon as fed is dead ’tis starving makes it fat.
Anger as soon as fed is dead ’tis starving makes it fat.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
My only sketch profile of heaven is a large blue sky and larger than the biggest I have seen in June-and in it are my friends-every one of them.
Eden is that old-fashioned House We dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode Until we drive away.
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain If I can ease one life the aching Or cool one pain Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again I shall not live in vain.
If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain.
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee A clover anytime to him Is aristocracy.
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without words And never stops – at all.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.
To make a prairie it takes clover and one bee one clover and a bee and revery The revery alone will do if bees are few.
Love is anterior to life Posterior to death Initial of creation and The exponent of breath.
Luck is not chance it’s toil fortune’s expensive smile is earned.
Superiority to fate is difficult to gain ’tis not conferred of any but possible to earn.
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.
Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed.
We turn not older with years but newer every day.
The soul should always stand ajar ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed.
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed.
Time is a Test of Trouble – But not a Remedy – If such it proved it proves too There was no Melody.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
Celebrity is the chastisement of merit and the punishment of talent.
I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
Luck is not chance, it’s toil; fortune’s expensive smile is earned.
Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.
Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
Sisters are brittle things. God was penurious with me, which makes me shrewd with Him. One is a dainty sum! One bird, one cage, one flight; one song in those far woods, as yet suspected by faith only!
Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
I argue thee that love is life. And life hath immortality.
They might not need me but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.