It Was Too Late for Man, par Emily Dickinson

It Was Too Late for Man

623

It was too late for Man—

But early, yet, for God—

Creation—impotent to help—

But Prayer—remained—Our Side—

How excellent the Heaven—

When Earth—cannot be had—

How hospitable—then—the face

Of our Old Neighbor—God—

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A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew

It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind; Yet blamed the fate that fractured…

567 He gave away his Life— To Us—Gigantic Sum— A trifle—in his own esteem— But magnified—by Fame—

33 If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not. And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot.

41 I robbed the Woods— The trusting Woods. The unsuspecting Trees Brought out their Burs and mosses

735 Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls— Than Life’s sweet Calculations— The mixing Bells and Palls—

509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive… At such and such a time—

329 So glad we are—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear—

How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream - Who spun the Auburn Cloth?

722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,

798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an… Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men—

I never saw a moor; I never saw the sea, Yet know I how the heather looks And what a billow be. I never spoke with God,

789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty

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

XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;