The Brain Within It’s Groove, by Emily Dickinson

The Brain Within It’s Groove

The brain within its groove

Runs evenly and true;

But let a splinter swerve,

‘T were easier for you

To put the water back

When floods have slit the hills,

And scooped a turnpike for themselves,

And blotted out the mills!

XXXVI I NEVER hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.

137 Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men:

673 The Love a Life can show Below Is but a filament, I know, Of that diviner thing That faints upon the face of Noon…

229 A Burdock—clawed my Gown— Not Burdock’s—blame— But mine— Who went too near

456 So well that I can live without— I love thee—then How well is that… As well as Jesus? Prove it me

Part One: Life XXXV I CAN wade grief, Whole pools of it,— I ’m used to that.

515 No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit—I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection—does—

340 Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot

859 A Doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.

369 She lay as if at play Her life had leaped away— Intending to return— But not so soon—

620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—

375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack—

II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.

323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—

182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.