September’s Baccalaureate, par Emily Dickinson

September’s Baccalaureate

A combination is

Of Crickets– Crows– and Retrospects

And a dissembling Breeze

That hints without assuming -

An Innuendo sear

That makes the Heart put up its Fun

And turn Philosopher.

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468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—

698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—

212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.

550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then

885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—

186 What shall I do—it whimpers so— This little Hound within the Hear… All day and night with bark and st… And yet, it will not go—

156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn—

999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said

XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.

161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—

387 The sweetest Heresy received That Man and Woman know— Each Other’s Convert— Though the Faith accommodate but…

It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

275 Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint—