Emily Dickinson

A not admitting of the wound Until it grew so wide That all my Life had entered it And there were troughs beside - A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun Until the tender Carpenter Perpetual nail it down -

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides - You may have met him? Did you not His notice instant is - The Grass divides as with a Comb, A spotted Shaft is seen, And then it closes at your Feet And opens further on - He likes a Boggy Acre - A Floor too cool for Corn - But when a Boy and Barefoot I more than once at Noon Have passed I thought a Whip Lash Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled And was gone - Several of Nature’s People I know, and they know me I feel for them a transport Of Cordiality But never met this Fellow Attended or alone Without a tighter Breathing And Zero at the Bone.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away - And now We roam in Sovreign Woods - And now We hunt the Doe - And every time I speak for Him The Mountains straight reply - And do I smile, such cordial light Opon the Valley glow - It is as a Vesuvian face Had let it’s pleasure through - And when at Night - Our good Day done - I guard My Master’s Head - ’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s Deep Pillow - to have shared - To foe of His - I’m deadly foe - None stir the second time - On whom I lay a Yellow Eye - Or an emphatic Thumb - Though I than He - may longer live He longer must - than I - For I have but the power to kill, Without - the power to die -

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants - At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always And yet it’s whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay - And fleeter than a Tare - ’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler - The Germ of Alibi - Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie - I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit - This surreptitious Scion Of Summer’s circumspect. Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn - Had Nature an Apostate - That Mushroom - it is Him!

Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense - the starkest Madness - ’Tis the Majority In this, as all, prevail - Assent - and you are sane - Demur - you’re straightway dangerous - And handled with a Chain -

The morns are meeker than they were - The nuts are getting brown - The berry’s cheek is plumper - The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf - The field a scarlet gown - Lest I sh'd be old-fashioned I’ll put a trinket on.

The Moon is distant from the Sea – And yet, with Amber Hands – She leads Him – docile as a Boy – Along appointed Sands – He never misses a Degree – Obedient to Her eye – He comes just so far – toward the Town – Just so far – goes away – Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand – And mine – the distant Sea – Obedient to the least command Thine eye impose on me –

Mine - by the Right of the White Election! Mine - by the Royal Seal! Mine - by the sign in the Scarlet prison - Bars - cannot conceal! Mine - here - in Vision - and in Veto! Mine - by the Grave's Repeal - Titled - Confirmed - Delirious Charter! Mine - long as Ages steal!

Let me not thirst with this Hock at my Lip, Nor beg, with domains in my pocket—

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down - It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues Tongues The clappers inside of the bells , for Noon. It was not Frost, for on my Flesh I felt Siroccos Siroccos Hot winds. The Emily Dickinson Lexicon includes definitions from the American Dictionary of the English Language (1844): “A pernicious wind that blows from the south-east in Italy, called the Syrian wind. It is said to resemble the steam from the mouth of an oven.” - crawl - Nor Fire - for just my marble feet Could keep a Chancel, Chancel The section near the altar of a church cool - And yet, it tasted, like them all, The Figures I have seen Set orderly, for Burial Reminded me, of mine - As if my life were shaven, And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key, And ’twas like Midnight, some - When everything that ticked - has stopped - And space stares - all around - Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns, Repeal the Beating Ground - But most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool - Without a Chance, or spar spar The top mast of a ship - Or even a Report of Land - To justify - Despair.