The Brain Within It’s Groove, par 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!

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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,

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

426 It don't sound so terrible—quite—a… I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "De… Put it in Latin—left of my school… Seems it don't shriek so—under rul…

83 Heart, not so heavy as mine Wending late home— As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune—

323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—

734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which…

881 I’ve none to tell me to but Thee So when Thou failest, nobody. It was a little tie— It just held Two, nor those it he…

197 Morning—is the place for Dew— Corn—is made at Noon— After dinner light—for flowers— Dukes—for Setting Sun!

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind. The vane a little to the east

687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—

921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.

267 Did we disobey Him? Just one time! Charged us to forget Him— But we couldn’t learn!

A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin

His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn