Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid; How many times they bore The faithful witness, Till we are helped, As if a kingdom cared! Read then of faith That shone above the fagot; Clear strains of hymn The river could not drown; Brave names of men And celestial women, Passed out of record Into renown!
The Bone That Has No Marrow; By Emily Dickinson
The bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that? It is not fit for table, For beggar, or for cat. A bone has obligations, A being has the…
The Bluebird. By Emily Dickinson
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness, A fellow in the skies Of independent hues, A little weather-worn, Inspiriting habiliments Of indigo and brown….
The Blue Jay. By Emily Dickinson
No brigadier throughout the year So civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too, With shrill felicity Pursuing winds that censure us A February day, The brother of…
The Bee. By Emily Dickinson
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry…
The Battle-Field. By Emily Dickinson
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes. They perished in the seamless…
The Bat. By Emily Dickinson
The bat is dun with wrinkled wings Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halved, Describing in the air An…
The Balloon. By Emily Dickinson
You’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you? So stately they ascend It is as swans discarded you For duties diamond. Their liquid feet go softly out Upon a sea of…
That Such Have Died Enables Us By Emily Dickinson
That such have died enables us The tranquiller to die; That such have lived, certificate For immortality.
Thanksgiving Day. By Emily Dickinson
One day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day, Celebrated part at table, Part in memory. Neither patriarch nor pussy, I dissect the play; Seems it, to my hooded…