This Was in the White of the Year, by Emily Dickinson

This Was in the White of the Year

995

This was in the White of the Year—

That—was in the Green—

Drifts were as difficult then to think

As Daisies now to be seen—

Looking back is best that is left

Or if it be—before—

Retrospection is Prospect’s half,

Sometimes, almost more.

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523 Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered Every time—for Two— So that the Sum be never hindered Through Decay of You—

264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—

974 The Soul’s distinct connection With immortality Is best disclosed by Danger Or quick Calamity—

One need not be a chamber to be ha… One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place. Far safer, of a midnight meeting

620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—

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

770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus

420 You’ll know it—as you know ’tis N… By Glory— As you do the Sun— By Glory—

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

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

235 The Court is far away— No Umpire—have I— My Sovereign is offended— To gain his grace—I’d die!

Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the… And rested on a beam; And then together bore away

972 Unfulfilled to Observation— Incomplete—to Eye— But to Faith—a Revolution In Locality—

165 A Wounded Deer—leaps highest— I’ve heard the Hunter tell— ’Tis but the Ecstasy of death— And then the Brake is still!

616 I rose—because He sank— I thought it would be opposite— But when his power dropped— My Soul grew straight.