It’s coming—the postponeless Creature—, by Emily Dickinson

It’s coming—the postponeless Creature—

390

It’s coming—the postponeless Creature—

It gains the Block—and now—it gains the Door—

Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings—

Enters—with a “You know Me—Sir”?

Simple Salute—and certain Recognition—

Bold—were it Enemy—Brief—were it friend—

Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle—

And carries one—out of it—to God—

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet now I know how the heather lo… And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God,

126 To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe—

A drop fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

230 We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing… ’Tisn’t all Hock—with us— Life has its Ale— But it’s many a lay of the Dim Bu…

994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.

I am afraid to own a Body - I am afraid to own a Soul - Profound– precarious Property – Possession, not optional - Double Estate - entailed at plea…

929 How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery.

368 How sick—to wait—in any place—but… I knew last night—when someone tri… Thinking—perhaps—that I looked ti… Or breaking—almost—with unspoken p…

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nat… Gravitates within— Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it— Bit it stir—alone— Each—its difficult Ideal

32 When Roses cease to bloom, Sir, And Violets are done— When Bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the Sun—

917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

383 Exhiliration—is within— There can no Outer Wine So royally intoxicate As that diviner Brand

443 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— Life’s little duties do—precisely— As the very least Were infinite—to me—