I STOOD by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
“Alas!” I cried, “my life is full of pain,
And who can garner fruit or golden grain,
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!”
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The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
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He lay awake, with a harassed air,
And she, in her cloud of loose lank hair,
Seemed trouble-tried
As the dawn drew in on their faces there.
The chamber looked far over the sea
From a white hotel on a white-stoned quay,
And stepping a stride
He parted the window-drapery.
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In the days before the high tide
Swept away the towers of sand
Built with so much care and labour
By the children of the land,
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Open the window, and let the air Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night, with the breath of the rain’s sweet might.
Hark! The burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown! Stormy Love’s abroad, and keeps Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
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THE daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”
We are the flower, Thou the sun!
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EACH life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
A goal,
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
Too fair
For credibility’s temerity
To dare.
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
To reach
Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment
To touch,
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A MURMUR in the trees to note,
Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
Nor near enough to find;
A long, long yellow on the lawn,
A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
But dapperer, more sweet;
A hurrying home of little men
To houses unperceived,—
All this, and more, if I should tell,
Would never be believed Read more
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LIKE some old-fashioned miracle
When Summertime is done,
Seems Summer’s recollection
And the affairs of June.
As infinite tradition
As Cinderella’s bays,
Or little John of Lincoln Green,
Or Bluebeard’s galleries.
Her Bees have a fictitious hum,
Her Blossoms, like a dream,
Elate—until we almost weep
So plausible they seem.
Her Memories like strains—review—
When Orchestra is dumb,
The Violin in baize replaced
And Ear and Heaven numb.
-Emily
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IT struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through.
It burned me in the night,
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
With every morning’s beam.
I thought that storm was brief,—
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky
-Emily Dickinson
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