Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete

With but a single star, That often as a cloud it met Blew out itself for fear. The wind pursued the little bush, And drove away the leaves November left; then clambered up And fretted in the eaves. No squirrel went abroad; A dog's belated feet Like intermittent plush were heard Adown the empty street. To feel if blinds be fast, And closer to the fire Her little rocking-chair to draw, And shiver for the poor, The housewife's gentle task. "How pleasanter," said she Unto the sofa opposite, "The sleet than May -- no thee!" IX. POSSESSION. Did the harebell loose her girdle To the lover bee, Would the bee the harebell hallow Much as formerly? Did the paradise, persuaded, Yield her moat of pearl, Would the Eden be an Eden, Or the earl an earl? X. A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld, -- The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies, -- Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies. XI. THE LOVERS. The rose did caper on her cheek, Her bodice rose and fell, Her pretty speech, like drunken men, Did stagger pitiful. Her fingers fumbled at her work, -- Her needle would not go; What ailed so smart a little maid It puzzled me to know, Till opposite I spied a cheek That bore another rose; Just opposite, another speech That like the drunkard goes; A vest that, like the bodice, danced To the immortal tune, -- Till those two troubled little clocks Ticked softly into one. XII. 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 feet A myriad daisies play. Which, sir, are you, and which am I, Upon an August day? XIII. The moon is distant from the sea, And yet with amber hands She leads him, docile as a boy, Along appointed sands. He never misses a degree; Obedient to her eye, He comes just so far toward the town, Just so far goes away. Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand, And mine the distant sea, -- Obedient to the least command Thine eyes impose on me. XIV. He put the belt around my life, -- I heard the buckle snap, And turned away, imperial, My lifetime folding up Deliberate, as a duke would do A kingdom's title-deed, -- Henceforth a dedicated sort, A member of the cloud. Yet not too far to come at call, And do the little toils That make the circuit of the rest, And deal occasional smiles To lives that stoop to notice mine And kindly ask it in, -- Whose invitation, knew you not For whom I must decline? XV. THE LOST JEWEL. 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. XVI. What if I say I shall not wait? What if I burst the fleshly gate And pass, escaped, to thee? What if I file this mortal off, See where it hurt me, -- that 's enough, -- And wade in liberty? They cannot take us any more, -- Dungeons may call, and guns implore; Unmeaning now, to me, As laughter was an hour ago, Or laces, or a travelling show, Or who died yesterday! III. NATURE. I. MOTHER NATURE. Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, -- Her admonition mild In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird. How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon, -- Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower. When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere. II. OUT OF THE MORNING. Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies! III. At half-past three a single bird Unto a silent sky Propounded but a single term Of cautious melody. At half-past four, experiment Had subjugated test, And lo! her silver principle Supplanted all the rest. At half-past seven, element Nor implement was seen, And place was where the presence was, Circumference between. IV. DAY'S PARLOR. The day came slow, till five o'clock, Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east, The sunrise shook from fold, Like breadths of topaz, packed a night, The lady just unrolled. The happy winds their timbrels took; The birds, in docile rows, Arranged themselves around their prince (The wind is prince of those). The orchard sparkled like a Jew, -- How mighty 't was, to stay A guest in this stupendous place, The parlor of the day! V. THE SUN'S WOOING. The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring. She felt herself supremer, -- A raised, ethereal thing; Henceforth for her what holiday! Meanwhile, her wheeling king Trailed slow along the orchards His haughty, spangled hems, Leaving a new necessity, -- The want of diadems! The morning fluttered, staggered, Felt feebly for her crown, -- Her unanointed forehead Henceforth her only one. VI. THE ROBIN. The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on. The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun. The robin is the one That speechless from her nest Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best. VII. THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY. From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door Emerged -- a summer afternoon -- Repairing everywhere, Without design, that I could trace, Except to stray abroad On miscellaneous enterprise The clovers understood. Her pretty parasol was seen Contracting in a field Where men made hay, then struggling hard With an opposing cloud, Where parties, phantom as herself, To Nowhere seemed to go In purposeless circumference, As 't were a tropic show. And notwithstanding bee that worked, And flower that zealous blew, This audience of idleness Disdained them, from the sky, Till sundown crept, a steady tide, And men that made the hay, And afternoon, and butterfly, Extinguished in its sea. VIII. THE BLUEBIRD. Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness, A fellow in the skies Of independent hues, A little weather-worn, Inspiriting habiliments Of indigo and brown. With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self! IX. APRIL. An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads, -- All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus' mystery Receives its annual reply. X. THE SLEEPING FLOWERS. "Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?" Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply. "Perhaps they did not hear," I said; "I will inquire again. Whose are the beds, the tiny beds So thick upon the plain?" "'T is daisy in the shortest; A little farther on, Nearest the door to wake the first, Little leontodon. "'T is iris, sir, and aster, Anemone and bell, Batschia in the blanket red, And chubby daffodil." Meanwhile at many cradles Her busy foot she plied, Humming the quaintest lullaby That ever rocked a child. "Hush! Epigea wakens! -- The crocus stirs her lids, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, -- She's dreaming of the woods." Then, turning from them, reverent, "Their bed-time 't is," she said; "The bumble-bees will wake them When April woods are red." XI. MY ROSE. Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees' exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl's distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee! XII. THE ORIOLE'S SECRET. To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine. It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd. The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair. So whether it be rune, Or whether it be none, Is of within; The "tune is in the tree," The sceptic showeth me; "No, sir! In thee!" XIII. THE ORIOLE. One of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal, The blissful oriole. So drunk, he disavows it With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For an alighting mine. A pleader, a dissembler, An epicure, a thief, -- Betimes an oratorio, An ecstasy in chief; The Jesuit of orchards, He cheats as he enchants Of an entire attar For his decamping wants. The splendor of a Burmah, The meteor of birds, Departing like a pageant Of ballads and of bards. I never thought that Jason sought For any golden fleece; But then I am a rural man, With thoughts that make for peace. But if there were a Jason, Tradition suffer me Behold his lost emolument Upon the apple-tree. XIV. IN SHADOW. I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I 'm accustomed to him grown, -- He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live Till that first shout got by, Not all pianos in the woods Had power to mangle me. I dared not meet the daffodils, For fear their yellow gown Would pierce me with a fashion So foreign to my own. I wished the grass would hurry, So when 't was time to see, He 'd be too tall, the tallest one Could stretch to look at me. I could not bear the bees should come, I wished they 'd stay away In those dim countries where they go: What word had they for me? They 're here, though; not a creature failed, No blossom stayed away In gentle deference to me, The Queen of Calvary. Each one salutes me as he goes, And I my childish plumes Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment Of their unthinking drums. XV. THE HUMMING-BIRD. A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head, -- The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning's ride. XVI. SECRETS. The skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills -- The hills just tell the orchards -- And they the daffodils! A bird, by chance, that goes that way