In lands I never saw, they say,
Immortal Alps look down,
Whose bonnets touch the firmament,
Whose sandals touch the town,—
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad daisies play.
Which, sir, are you, and which am I,
Upon an August day?
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
To lose Thee by Emily Dickinson
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
?Tis true the drought is destitute
But, then, I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of sand,
Its other realm of sea.
Without this sterile perquisite
No Caspian could be.
I held a jewel in my fingers
And went to sleep
The day was warm, and winds were prosy
I said, “Twill keep”
I woke – and chide my honest fingers,
The Gem was gone
And now, an Amethyst remembrance
Is all I own
Emily Dickinson – I Held a Jewel in My Fingers
A Wounded Deer — leaps highest —
I’ve heard the Hunter tell —
‘Tis but the Ecstasy of death —
And then the Brake is still!
The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “you’re hurt” exclaim!
A Wounded Deer — leaps highest by Emily Dickinson
Patience—has a quiet Outer—
Patience—Look within—
Is an Insect’s futile forces
Infinites—between—
‘Scaping one—against the other
Fruitlesser to fling—
Patience—is the Smile’s exertion
Through the quivering—
~ Emily Dickinson
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay.
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
For Each Ecstatic Instant by Emily Dickinson
