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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Death is like the insect

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.
 
Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.
 
Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill -
Wring the tree and leave it,
’Tis the vermin’s will.

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

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Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson...
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If He were living—dare I ask—

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Over and Over, Like a Tune

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The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes

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Tho’ my Destiny Be Fustian

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If I Shouldn’T Be Alive

182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
May-Flower

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I've nothing else—to bring, You know—

224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
A first Mute Coming

702 A first Mute Coming— In the Stranger’s House— A first fair Going— When the Bells rejoice—
 1
Rehearsal to Ourselves

379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
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Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread

104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.
Her—last Poems—

312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,
Life LXXIX. I Years had been from home

LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
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