I Robbed the Woods, di Emily Dickinson

I Robbed the Woods

I robbed the Woods—

The trusting Woods.

The unsuspecting Trees

Brought out their Burs and mosses

My fantasy to please.

I scanned their trinkets curious—I grasped—I bore away—

What will the solemn Hemlock—

What will the Oak tree say?

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MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, I 'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be

904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—

489 We pray—to Heaven— We prate—of Heaven— Relate—when Neighbors die— At what o’clock to heaven—they fle…

242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—

My life closed twice before its cl… It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me So huge, so hopeless to conceive

Remembrance has a Rear and Front… ’Tis something like a House - It has a Garret also For Refuse and the Mouse. Besides the deepest Cellar

Shall I take thee, the Poet said To the propounded word? Be stationed with the Candidates Till I have finer tried— The Poet searched Philology

895 A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me

No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,

A Counterfeit– a Plated Person… I would not be - Whatever strata of Iniquity My Nature underlie - Truth is good Health - and Safet…

381 A Secret told— Ceases to be a Secret—then— A Secret—kept— That—can appal but One—

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

900 What did They do since I saw The… Were They industrious? So many questions to put Them Have I the eagerness

171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now!

Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.