Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 41 pages of information about Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series.

Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 41 pages of information about Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series.

XXI.

Immortal is an ample word
  When what we need is by,
But when it leaves us for a time,
  ’T is a necessity.

Of heaven above the firmest proof
  We fundamental know,
Except for its marauding hand,
  It had been heaven below.

XXII.

Where every bird is bold to go,
  And bees abashless play,
The foreigner before he knocks
  Must thrust the tears away.

XXIII.

The grave my little cottage is,
  Where, keeping house for thee,
I make my parlor orderly,
  And lay the marble tea,

For two divided, briefly,
  A cycle, it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
  In strong society.

XXIV.

This was in the white of the year,
  That was in the green,
Drifts were as difficult then to think
  As daisies now to be seen.

Looking back is best that is left,
  Or if it be before,
Retrospection is prospect’s half,
  Sometimes almost more.

XXV.

Sweet hours have perished here;
  This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played, —­
  Now shadows in the tomb.

XXVI.

Me!  Come!  My dazzled face
In such a shining place!

Me!  Hear!  My foreign ear
The sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meet
Our bashful feet.

My holiday shall be
That they remember me;

My paradise, the fame
That they pronounce my name.

XXVII.

Invisible.

From us she wandered now a year,
  Her tarrying unknown;
If wilderness prevent her feet,
  Or that ethereal zone

No eye hath seen and lived,
  We ignorant must be. 
We only know what time of year
  We took the mystery.

XXVIII.

I wish I knew that woman’s name,
  So, when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears,
  For fear I hear her say

She’s ‘sorry I am dead,’ again,
  Just when the grave and I
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, —­
  Our only lullaby.

XXIX.

Trying to forget.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
  No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, —­
  The grave preceded me,

Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
  And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
  The pillow for my head.

I waked, to find it first awake,
  I rose, —­ it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
  To lose it in the sea,

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Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.