Each Second Is the Last, by Emily Dickinson

Each Second Is the Last

879

Each Second is the last

Perhaps, recalls the Man

Just measuring unconsciousness

The Sea and Spar between.

To fail within a Chance—

How terribler a thing

Than perish from the Chance’s list

Before the Perishing!

910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead

Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather

157 Musicians wrestle everywhere— All day—among the crowded air I hear the silver strife— And—walking—long before the morn—

52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—

A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—

694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—

Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—

The dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,

The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.

532 I tried to think a lonelier Thing Than any I had seen— Some Polar Expiation—An Omen in… Of Death’s tremendous nearness—

That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant… At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always

99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.

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

156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn—