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Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

We Like March, His Shoes Are Purple,

We like March, his shoes are purple,
  He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
  Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
  And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
  That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
  Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
  On his British sky.

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Altre opere di Emily Dickinson...
Expectation—is Contentment—

807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
 1
‘Twould ease—a Butterfly

682 ‘Twould ease—a Butterfly— Elate—a Bee— Thou’rt neither— Neither—thy capacity—
 1
Unto like Story—Trouble has enticed me

295 Unto like Story—Trouble has entic… How Kinsmen fell— Brothers and Sister—who preferred… And their young will
To Own the Art Within the Soul

855 To own the Art within the Soul The Soul to entertain With Silence as a Company And Festival maintain
To Venerate the Simple Days

57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
It Was Too Late for Man

623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
The Mountains—grow unnoticed

757 The Mountains—grow unnoticed— Their Purple figures rise Without attempt—Exhaustion— Assistance—or Applause—
A Long, Long Sleep, a Famous Sleep

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
 1
Fame Is a Bee

1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
Glee—The great storm is over—

619 Glee—The great storm is over— Four—have recovered the Land— Forty gone down together— Into the boiling Sand.
Life XVII. When night is almost done (347)

XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
One Life of So Much Consequence!

270 One Life of so much Consequence! Yet I—for it—would pay— My Soul’s entire income— In ceaseless—salary—
 1
It’s Like the Light,—

It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
 1
The Show Is Not the Show,

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—
How sick—to wait—in any place—but thine

368 How sick—to wait—in any place—but… I knew last night—when someone tri… Thinking—perhaps—that I looked ti… Or breaking—almost—with unspoken p…



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