Emily Dickinson

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, eyes __ wonder if It weighs like Mine __r has an Easier size.I wonder if They bore it long __r did it just begin __ could not tell the Date of Mine __t feels so old a pain __ wonder if it hurts to live __nd if They have to try __nd whether _ could They choose between __t would not be _ to die __ note that Some _ gone patient long __t length, renew their smile __n imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil __ wonder if when Years have piled __ome Thousands _ on the Harm __hat hurt them early _ such a lapseCould give them any Balm.

The past is not a package one can lay away.

Consciousness is the only home of which we know.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one's own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror's least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O'erlooking a superior spectreMore near.

I HIDE myself within my flowerThat wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too__nd angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness...

To shut your eyes is to travel.

But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory__ fog is rising.

We dream _ it is good we are dreaming __t would hurt us _ were we awake __ut since it is playing _ kill us,And we are playing _ shriek __hat harm? Men die _ externally __t is a truth _ of Blood __ut we _ are dying in Drama __nd Drama _ is never dead __autious _ We jar each other __nd either _ open the eyes __est the Phantasm _ prove the Mistake __nd the livid SurpriseCool us to Shafts of Granite __ith just an Age _ and Name __nd perhaps a phrase in Egyptian __t's prudenter _ to dream _

The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size.

Till I loved I never lived.

When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is 'acquainted with Grief', we listen, for that also is an Acquaintance of our own.

To lose what we never owned might seem an eccentric Bereavement but Presumption has its Affliction as actually as Claim --

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you__e lagging,I may remember him!

And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze,Without my right of frost, Death's privilege?

Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies