I many times thought peace had come
When peace was far away,
As wrecked men deem they sight the land
When far at sea they stay.
And struggle slacker, but to prove,
As hopelessly as I,
That many the fictitious shores
Before the harbor lie.
I Many Times Thought by Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson – What If I Say
What if I say I shall not wait?
What if I burst the fleshly gate
And pass, escaped, to thee?
What if I file this mortal off,
See where it hurt me, – that’s enough, –
And wade in liberty?
They cannot take me any more, –
Dungeons may call, and guns implore;
Unmeaning, now, to me
As laughter was an hour ago,
Or laces, or a traveling show,
Or who died yesterday!
Emily Dickinson
Inspiring Love Poems and Short Stories
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth, -the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
Emily Dickinson – I Died For Beauty, but was Scarce
Why — do they shut me out of Heaven?
Did I sing — too loud?
But — I can sing a little “Minor,”
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn’t the angels try me —
Just — once more —
Just — see — if I troubled them
But don’t — shut the door,!
Oh, if I — were the Gentlemen
In the “White Robes”
And they — were the little Hand — that knocked —
Could –I forbid?
My river runs to thee:
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?
My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously!
I ’ll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks,—
Say, sea,
Take me!
I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way.
The wealth might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love
Depreciate the vision;
But, till the merchant buy,
Still fable, in the isles of spice,
The subtle cargoes lie.
At least, ’t is mutual risk,—
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon.
Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?
And nobody, knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry!
