Saturday, December 10, 2011

Happy birthday, Emily Dickinson.

The greatest American poet. Period.

No, don't argue.

...

(no. 443)
I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl — 
Life's little duties do — precisely — 
As the very least  
Were infinite — to me — 
    
I put new Blossoms in the Glass — 
And throw the old — away — 
I push a petal from my gown  
That anchored there — I weigh  
The time 'twill be till six o'clock  
I have so much to do — 
And yet — Existence — some way back — 
Stopped — struck — my ticking — through — 
We cannot put Ourself away  
As a completed Man  
Or Woman — When the Errand's done  
We came to Flesh — upon — 
There may be — Miles on Miles of Nought — 
Of Action — sicker far — 
To simulate — is stinging work — 
To cover what we are  
From Science — and from Surgery — 
Too Telescopic Eyes  
To bear on us unshaded — 
For their — sake — not for Ours — 
Twould start them — 
We — could tremble — 
But since we got a Bomb — 
And held it in our Bosom — 
Nay — Hold it — it is calm — 
    
Therefore — we do life's labor — 
Though life's Reward — be done — 
With scrupulous exactness — 
To hold our Senses — on —
 
-- 
 
(no. 640)
...So We must meet apart – 
You there – I – here – 
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer – 
And that White Sustenance – 
Despair – 

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