| Poems by Emily Dickinson |
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All but Death, can be Adjusted –
Dynasties repaired –
Systems – settled in their Sockets –
Citadels – dissolved.
Wastes of Lives - resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs –
Death – unto itself – Exception –
Is exempt from Change.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say “The Summer” than “the Autumn,” lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved – So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life’s Declivity. |
At least – to pray – is left – is left – Oh Jesus – in the Air – I know not which thy chamber is – I’m knocking – everywhere. Thou settest Earthquake in the South – And Maelstrom, in the Sea – Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth – Hast thou no Arm for Me? |
Beauty crowds me till I die Beauty mercy have on me But if I expire today Let it be in sight of thee. |
Behind Me – dips Eternity – Before Me – Immortality – Myself – the Term between – Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray, Dissolving into Dawn away, Before the West begin. ’Tis Kingdoms – afterward – they say – In perfect – pauseless Monarchy – Whose Prince – is Son of None – Himself – His Dateless Dynasty – Himself – Himself diversify – In Duplicate divine. ’Tis Miracle before Me – then – ’Tis Miracle behind – between – A Crescent in the Sea – With Midnight to the North of Her – And Midnight to the South of Her – And Maelstrom – in the Sky. |
Besides the Autumn poets sing A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the Haze. A few incisive Mornings, A few Ascetic Eves – Gone Mr. Bryant’s “golden rod”, And Mr. Thomson’s “sheaves.” Still, is the bustle in the Brook – Sealed are the spicy valves – Mesmeric fingers softly touch The Eyes of many Elves. Perhaps a squirrel may remain, My sentiments to share. Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind – Thy windy will to bear! |