Part Four: Time and Eternity
CXIV
I SING to use the waiting,
My bonnet but to tie,
And shut the door unto my house;
No more to do have I,
Till, his best step approaching, 5
We journey to the day,
And tell each other how we sang
To keep the dark away.
I Sing by Emily Dickinson
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
If I can stop one heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one life the aching
or cool one pain
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again
I shall not live in vain
-Emily Dickinson
We outgrow love like other things
And put it in the drawer,
Till it an antique fashion shows
Like costumes grandsires wore.
I have no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,
Nor action new,
Except through this extent,
The realm of you.
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!
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him —
Tell Him the page I didn’t write —
Tell Him — I only said the Syntax —
And left the Verb and the pronoun out —
Tell Him just how the fingers hurried —
Then — how they waded — slow — slow —
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages —
So you could see what moved them so —
Tell Him — it wasn’t a Practised Writer —
You guessed — from the way the sentence toiled —
You could hear the Bodice tug, behind you —
As if it held but the might of a child —
You almost pitied it — you — it worked so —
Tell Him — no — you may quibble there —
For it would split His Heart, to know it —
And then you and I, were silenter.
Tell Him — Night finished — before we finished —
And the Old Clock kept neighing “Day”!
And you — got sleepy — and begged to be ended —
What could it hinder so — to say?
Tell Him — just how she sealed you — Cautious!
But — if He ask where you are hid
Until tomorrow — Happy letter!
Gesture Coquette — and shake your Head!
Emily Dickinson – Going to Him! Happy letter!
