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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds

141
 
Some, too fragile for winter winds
The thoughtful grave encloses—
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.
 
Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look,
And sportsman is not bold.
 
This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold,
Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father—
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

#AmericanWriters

Altre opere di Emily Dickinson...
Teach Him – When He makes the names –

227 Teach Him – When He makes the na… Such an one – to say – On his babbling – Berry – lips – As should sound – to me –
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life—

731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—
 1
An Altered Look About the Hills

140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
The Face I Carry With Me—last

336 The face I carry with me—last— When I go out of Time— To take my Rank—by—in the West— That face—will just be thine—
Perhaps I Asked Too Large

Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
Midsummer, Was It, When They Died

962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
161 a feather from the Whippoorwill

A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
 1
Dying! to Be Afraid of Thee

831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
If What we could—were what we would—

407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—
 1
Within my Reach!

90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
Nobody Knows This Little Rose

35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
 1
The Show Is Not the Show,

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—
Mama Never Forgets Her Birds

164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
 2
Except to Heaven, She Is Nought

154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
Love LV. I envy seas whereon he rides

LV I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills
 2



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