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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

The Brain Within It’s Groove

The brain within its groove
Runs evenly and true;
But let a splinter swerve,
‘T were easier for you
To put the water back
When floods have slit the hills,
And scooped a turnpike for themselves,
And blotted out the mills!

#AmericanWriters

Other works by Emily Dickinson...
Some Such Butterfly Be Seen

541 Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas— Just at noon—no later—Sweet— Then—the License closes—
 1
I Am Ashamed’€”i Hide

473 I am ashamed’—I hide’— What right have I’—to be a Bride’… So late a Dowerless Girl’— Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face’—
Departed to the Judgment,

Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. The flesh surrendered, cancelled
 1
Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church

Some keep the Sabbath going to Ch… I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice…
 1
I Think the Longest Hour of All

635 I think the longest Hour of all Is when the Cars have come— And we are waiting for the Coach— It seems as though the Time
Where Thou art—that—is Home

725 Where Thou art—that—is Home— Cashmere—or Calvary—the same— Degree—or Shame— I scarce esteem Location’s Name—
Is It Too Late to Touch You, Dear?

Is it too late to touch you, Dear… We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -
 1
To Hear an Oriole Sing

526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
 1
Luck is not chance

Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
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…
To This World She Returned

830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
The Hallowing of Pain

772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
She Bore It Till the Simple Veins

144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
Pigmy seraphs—gone astray—

138 Pigmy seraphs—gone astray— Velvet people from Vevay— Balles from some lost summer day— Bees exclusive Coterie—
Success Is Counted Sweetest

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host



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