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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

A Transport One Cannot Contain

184
 
A transport one cannot contain
May yet a transport be—
Though God forbid it lift the lid—
Unto its Ecstasy!
 
A Diagram—of Rapture!
A sixpence at a Show—
With Holy Ghosts in Cages!
The Universe would go!

#AmericanWriters

Altre opere di Emily Dickinson...
Conscious Am I in my Chamber

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—
Sleep Is Supposed to Be

13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
Light Is Sufficient to Itself

862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.
I Measure Every Grief I Meet (561)

I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, Eyes— I wonder if It weighs like Mine— Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long—
 1
Sometimes with the Heart

Sometimes with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the Might Few - love at all.
 1
The Wind Tapped Like a Tired Man,

The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
 1
God Made a Little Gentian

442 God made a little Gentian— It tried—to be a Rose— And failed—and all the Summer lau… But just before the Snows
Had I Presumed to Hope

522 Had I presumed to hope— The loss had been to Me A Value—for the Greatness’ Sake— As Giants—gone away—
To Hear an Oriole Sing

526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
 1
How Lonesome the Wind Must Feel Nights

How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
My Nosegays Are for Captives;

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper
We Can But Follow to the Sun

920 We can but follow to the Sun— As oft as He go down He leave Ourselves a Sphere behin… ’Tis mostly—following—
If the Foolish, Call Them “Flowers”

168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
 1
This Is the Land the Sunset Washes,

This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
I Breathed Enough to Learn the Trick,

I breathed enough to learn the tri… And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well, That one, to be quite sure The lungs are stirless, must desce…



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