To hang our head—ostensibly—, par Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

To hang our head—ostensibly—

105

To hang our head—ostensibly—

And subsequent, to find

That such was not the posture

Of our immortal mind—

Affords the sly presumption

That in so dense a fuzz—

You—too—take Cobweb attitudes

Upon a plane of Gauze!

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

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733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—

It’s Easy to Invent a Life

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The Sun kept setting—setting—still

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As If Some Little Arctic Flower

180 As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem— Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came

Crisis Is a Hair

889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep

161 a feather from the Whippoorwill

A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin

Denial—is the only fact

965 Denial—is the only fact Perceived by the Denied— Whose Will—a numb significance— The Day the Heaven died—

Life XLVIII. Though I get home how late, how late!

XLVIII THOUGH I get home how late, how… So I get home, ’t will compensate… Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me,

I Shall Keep Singing!

250 I shall keep singing! Birds will pass me On their way to Yellower Climes— Each—with a Robin’s expectation—

Her Smile Was Shaped Like Other Smiles

514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,

To Die

To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—

895 a Cloud withdrew from the Sky

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Again—his voice is at the door—

663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—

Houses—so the Wise Men tell me—

“Houses”'—so the Wise Men tell me… Houses—so the Wise Men tell me— “Mansions”! Mansions must be warm… Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm!

Dust Is the Only Secret

153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”

Emily Dickinson