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 – 

Attributed to Henry VIII, that scamp

Anonymous (c. 16th century) might well have been that wild and capricious king himself. But we're not sure.*

Western wind, when will thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

____
*Royal 'we' also employed for scholarly purposes.

Poem #2

Time Does Not Bring Relief; You All Have Lied

 

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied   

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;   

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.   

There are a hundred places where I fear   

To go,—so with his memory they brim.   

And entering with relief some quiet place   

Where never fell his foot or shone his face   

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Time Does Not Bring Relief” from Collected Poems. 

 

Millay's sonnets are well worth reading. You could buy her Collected Poems at Better World Books if you wanted to. Just a thought. (No, I don't make any money from linking to them.)