She slept beneath a tree Remembered but by me. I touched her cradle mute; She recognized the foot, Put on her carmine suit, — And see!
Poem
The Thought Beneath So Slight A Film By Emily Dickinson
The thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, — As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
The Test. By Emily Dickinson
I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I ‘m used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip — drunken. Let no…
The Sun’s Wooing. By Emily Dickinson
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring. She felt herself supremer, — A…
The Storm. By Emily Dickinson
There came a wind like a bugle; It quivered through the grass, And a green chill upon the heat So ominous did pass We barred the windows and the…
The Stimulus, Beyond The Grave By Emily Dickinson
The stimulus, beyond the grave His countenance to see, Supports me like imperial drams Afforded royally.
The Spirit. By Emily Dickinson
‘T is whiter than an Indian pipe, ‘T is dimmer than a lace; No stature has it, like a fog, When you approach the place. Not any voice…
The Spider. By Emily Dickinson
A spider sewed at night Without a light Upon an arc of white. If ruff it was of dame Or shroud of gnome, Himself, himself inform. Of immortality His strategy Was physiognomy.
The Soul’s Storm. By Emily Dickinson
It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night, It…
The Soul Unto Itself By Emily Dickinson
The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, — Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send. Secure against its own, No treason it can fear; Itself its sovereign,…