A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head, — The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning’s ride.
The Hemlock. By Emily Dickinson
I think the hemlock likes to stand Upon a marge of snow; It suits his own austerity, And satisfies an awe That men must slake in wilderness, Or in…
The Grave My Little Cottage Is, By Emily Dickinson
The grave my little cottage is, Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly, And lay the marble tea, For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may…
The Grass. By Emily Dickinson
The grass so little has to do, — A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty…
The Goal. By Emily Dickinson
Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be, Too fair For credibility’s temerity To dare. Adored…
The Funeral. By Emily Dickinson
That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious ‘T is almost consequence, Is the eclat of death. Oh, thou unknown renown That not a…
The Forgotten Grave. By Emily Dickinson
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, — Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead….
The First Lesson. By Emily Dickinson
Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened,…
The Farthest Thunder That I Heard By Emily Dickinson
The farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons Have lain their missiles by. The lightning that preceded it Struck no one…
The Dying Need But Little, Dear, By Emily Dickinson
The dying need but little, dear, — A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret, And certainly that…