They Leave Us With the Infinite, by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

They Leave Us With the Infinite

350

They leave us with the Infinite.

But He—is not a man—

His fingers are the size of fists—

His fists, the size of men—

And whom he foundeth, with his Arm

As Himmaleh, shall stand—

Gibraltar’s Everlasting Shoe

Poised lightly on his Hand,

So trust him, Comrade—

You for you, and I, for you and me

Eternity is ample,

And quick enough, if true.

#AmericanWriters

Liked or faved by...

Other works by Emily Dickinson...

Ended, ere it begun -

Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely told When the Preface perished from Co… The Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!

Love—is anterior to Life—

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

Drama’s Vitallest Expression Is the Common Day

741 Drama’s Vitallest Expression is t… That arise and set about Us— Other Tragedy Perish in the Recitation—

Death Sets a Thing of Signigicant

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships

A solemn thing—it was—I said—

271 A solemn thing—it was—I said— A woman—white—to be— And wear—if God should count me f… Her blameless mystery—

Had we our senses

Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—

This World Is Not Conclusion

501 This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound—

Each Scar I’ll keep for Him

877 Each Scar I’ll keep for Him Instead I’ll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one

’Tis Good—the looking back on grief

660 ’Tis good—the looking back on Gri… To re-endure a Day— We thought the Mighty Funeral— Of All Conceived Joy—

613 They shut me up in Prose —

They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…

The Mystery of Pain

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,

Only God—detect the Sorrow—

626 Only God—detect the Sorrow— Only God— The Jehovahs—are no Babblers— Unto God—

The Bohemian, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Life XXVII. I'm nobody! Who are you? (288)

XXVII I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you k…

The Service Without Hope

779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—

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—

Emily Dickinson