Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire’s common tint; But when the vivid ore Has sated flame’s conditions, Its quivering substance plays Without a color but the light Of unanointed blaze. Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil’s even din Stands symbol for the finer forge That soundless tugs within, Refining these impatient…
The Way I Read A Letter’s This: By Emily Dickinson
The way I read a letter’s this: ‘T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next, For transport it be sure. And then…
The Waking Year. By Emily Dickinson
A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps! The tidy breezes with their brooms Sweep vale, and…
The Tulip. By Emily Dickinson
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!
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…