It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did, di Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did

426

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did—

I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "Dead."

Put it in Latin—left of my school—

Seems it don't shriek so—under rule.

Turn it, a little—full in the face

A Trouble looks bitterest—

Shift it—just—

Say "When Tomorrow comes this way—

I shall have waded down one Day."

I suppose it will interrupt me some

Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb

Like other new Things—shows largest—then—

And smaller, by Habit—

It's shrewder then

Put the Thought in advance—a Year—

How like "a fit"—then—

Murder—wear!

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I learned—at least—what Home could be

944 I learned—at least—what Home coul… How ignorant I had been Of pretty ways of Covenant— How awkward at the Hymn

Nature the Gentlest Mother Is

Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill

It stole along so stealthy

It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -

The Going From a World We Know

The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery

Away from Home are some and I

821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—

Tis Opposites—entice

355 ’Tis Opposites—entice— Deformed Men—ponder Grace— Bright fires—the Blanketless— The Lost—Day’s face—

A Book

There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take

Home

Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine

Why Make It Doubt’it Hurts It So

462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed

It Sifts From Leaden Sieves

311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road—

The Bustle in a House

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,

I Should Have Been Too Glad, I See

313 I should have been too glad, I se… Too lifted—for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round— My little Circuit would have sham…

Only a Shrine, But Mine

918 Only a Shrine, but Mine— I made the Taper shine— Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may… Regard a Nun—

They Ask But Our Delight

868 They ask but our Delight— The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenanc… For a penurious smile.

“Heaven” has different Signs—to me—

575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,

Emily Dickinson

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did

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