Love XLIX. We outgrow love like other things (887), par Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Love XLIX. We outgrow love like other things (887)

Part Three: Love

XLIX

WE outgrow love like other things

And put it in the drawer,

Till it an antique fashion shows

Like costumes grandsires wore.

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Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson...

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45 There’s something quieter than sle… Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name.

From Cocoon Forth a Butterfly

354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—

Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church

Some keep the Sabbath going to Ch… I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice…

A Planted Life—diversified

806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—'tis when

A House Upon the Height

399 A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached—

Chartless

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet now I know how the heather lo… And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God,

That Distance Was Between Us

863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—

To Hear an Oriole Sing

526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird

Whether they have forgotten

Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture

Could I But Ride Indefinite

661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me

You Said That I

You said that I “was Great”'—one… Then “Great” it be’—if that pleas… Or Small’—or any size at all’— Nay’—I’m the size suit Thee’— Tall’—like the Stag’—would that?

The Rainbow Never Tells Me

97 The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy.

‘Twould ease—a Butterfly

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I Had No Cause to Be Awake

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The Soul Unto Itself (683)

The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—

Emily Dickinson