The Guest Is Gold and Crimson, par Emily Dickinson

The Guest Is Gold and Crimson

The Guest is gold and crimson—

An Opal guest and gray—

Of Ermine is his doublet—

His Capuchin gay—

He reaches town at nightfall—

He stops at every door—

Who looks for him at morning

I pray him too—explore

The Lark’s pure territory—

Or the Lapwing’s shore!

912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.

63 If pain for peace prepares Lo, what “Augustan” years Our feet await! If springs from winter rise,

485 To make One’s Toilette—after Dea… Has made the Toilette cool Of only Taste we cared to please Is difficult, and still—

This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty Her message is committed

411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—

835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.

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

XCIX THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.

153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”

XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?

702 A first Mute Coming— In the Stranger’s House— A first fair Going— When the Bells rejoice—

531 We dream—it is good we are dreamin… It would hurt us—were we awake— But since it is playing—kill us, And we are playing—shriek—

XXVIII A CHARM invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled.

422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—