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,…
The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar, By Emily Dickinson
The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has…
The Snow. By Emily Dickinson
It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of…
The Snake. By Emily Dickinson
A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him, — did you not, His notice sudden is. The grass divides as with a comb, A…
The Sleeping Flowers. By Emily Dickinson
“Whose are the little beds,” I asked, “Which in the valleys lie?” Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply. “Perhaps they did not…
The Show. By Emily Dickinson
The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play — Both went to see.
The Shelter. By Emily Dickinson
The body grows outside, — The more convenient way, — That if the spirit like to hide, Its temple stands alway Ajar, secure, inviting; It never did betray The soul…
The Secret. By Emily Dickinson
Some things that fly there be, — Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy. Some things that stay there be, — Grief, hills, eternity: Nor this behooveth me….