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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Publication

Publication—is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man—
Poverty—be justifying
For so foul a thing
 
Possibly—but We—would rather
From Our Garret go
White—Unto the White Creator—
Than invest—Our Snow—
 
Thought belong to Him who gave it—
Then—to Him Who bear
Its Corporeal illustration—Sell
The Royal Air—
 
In the Parcel—Be the Merchant
Of the Heavenly Grace—
But reduce no Human Spirit
To Disgrace of Price—

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

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The Heaven Vests for Each

694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—
I Asked No Other Thing

621 I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered—
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Afraid! of Whom Am I Afraid?

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds

141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.
Of Bronze — and Blaze —

319 Of Bronze—and Blaze— The North—tonight— So adequate—it forms— So preconcerted with itself—
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The Lamp burns sure—within

233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
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Sweet, to Have Had Them Lost

901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,
I Went to Thank Her

363 I went to thank Her— But She Slept— Her Bed—a funneled Stone— With Nosegays at the Head and Fo…
They Shut Me Up in Prose

They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
A Something in a Summer’s Day

122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—
She Bore It Till the Simple Veins

144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
He Told a Homely Tale

763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
Unto my Books—so good to turn

604 Unto my Books—so good to turn— Far ends of tired Days— It half endears the Abstinence— And Pain—is missed—in Praise—
Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure

846 Twice had Summer her fair Verdure Proffered to the Plain— Twice a Winter’s silver Fracture On the Rivers been—
Come Slowly

Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
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