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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

173 a fuzzy fellow, without feet

A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!
 
Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer—by!
 
All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence—
And struts in sewing silk!
 
Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You’d scarce recognize him!
 
By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!

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Otras obras de Emily Dickinson...
Definition of Poetry

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....
By the Sea

I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me. And frigates in the upper floor
Baffled for Just a Day Or Two

17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.
 1
601 a still – Volcano – Life –

A still – Volcano – Life – That flickered in the night – When it was dark enough to do Without erasing sight – A quiet – Earthquake Style –
 1
What I See Not, I Better See

939 What I see not, I better see— Through Faith—my Hazel Eye Has periods of shutting— But, No lid has Memory—
Her Final Summer Was It,

Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
 1
Removed From Accident of Loss

424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—
 1
The Lamp burns sure—within

233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
 1
I Think the Longest Hour of All

635 I think the longest Hour of all Is when the Cars have come— And we are waiting for the Coach— It seems as though the Time
The Notice that is called the Spring

The Notice that is called the Spr… Is but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary work And take a Rosy Chair. Not any House the Flowers keep -
Unit, Like Death, for Whom?

408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
 1
Life VII. Within my reach! (90)

VII WITHIN my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered through the village…
 3
I Died for Beauty

I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was la… In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed…
 2
Could I—then—shut the door—

220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
Me from Myself — to banish —

642 Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress Unto All Heart —



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