Poem of the Day

There are some of Emily Dickinson’s poems in my Civil War poetry book. I hadn’t really thought of her as a Civil War poet, but I suppose she did live through it, albeit far from the fighting. It made me think of Longstreet, a little, and how he might have had feelings like this after three of his children died from scarlet fever, though he certainly didn’t write about them in his memoirs.

He fought like those Who’ve nought to lose—
By Emily Dickinson

He fought like those Who’ve nought to lose—
Bestowed Himself to Balls
As One who for a further Life
Had not a further Use—

Invited Death—with bold attempt—
But Death was Coy of Him
As Other Men, were Coy of Death—
To Him—to live—was Doom—

His Comrades, shifted like the Flakes
When Gusts reverse the Snow—
But He—was left alive Because
Of Greediness to die—

I’m visiting my parents this weekend, and my mother was sweet enough to put a rose in my bedroom.

Nobody knows this little Rose—
By Emily Dickinson

Nobody knows this little Rose—
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it—
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey—
On its breast to lie—
Only a Bird will wonder—
Only a Breeze will sigh—
Ah Little Rose—how easy
For such as thee to die!

The variety in my file of poems is rapidly decreasing, but I see that we haven’t heard from Miss Emily in a while, so here you go.

I taste a liquor never brewed—
By Emily Dickinson

I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door—
When Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—

Miss Emily’s a great one for metaphor.

I dwell in Possibility—
By Emily Dickinson

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—

Ah, Miss Emily…

The Soul selects her own Society—
By Emily Dickinson

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat—

I’ve known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like stone—

Current Tea: winter dreams (black tea with chocolate flavoring and peppermint leaves)

I’m up to the third book in the Mitford series (These High, Green Hills), and a poem from Miss Emily was quoted, so I thought I’d share.

A Day
By Emily Dickinson

I’ll tell you how the sun rose,—
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominic in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

Current Tea: Diva blend (Ceylon black tea with hints of hazelnut and chocolate)

Here’s another one from Miss Emily.

This World is not Conclusion
By Emily Dickinson

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don’t know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—

Current Tea: Nutcracker tea (black tea blended with apple bits, orange peels, currants, cinnamon, almond flakes, cloves, and safflowers)

I think this is the last Emily Dickinson poem I have in my file. I’ll have to find some more.

The Bustle in a House
By Emily Dickinson

The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth—

The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity.

I’m currently reading Gone with the Wind, which I haven’t read since I was in seventh grade (fifteen years ago!). I’ve always listed it as one of my top five favorite books, and I think I’m getting so much more out of reading it this time than when I was twelve years old! This is what happened when I reread Jane Eyre after a lapse of about ten years. Anyway, suffice it to say that I’m really enjoying GWTW. I thought this poem was appropriate in light of rediscovering an old friend.

There is no frigate like a book
By Emily Dickinson

There is no frigate like a book
      To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
      Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take
      Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
      That bears a human soul!

Sometimes Emily Dickinson just has a way with words…

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
By Emily Dickinson

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round—
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

This is the Hour of Lead—
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—

Let’s go with a short poem today.

Faith is a fine invention
By Emily Dickinson

“Faith” is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see—
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.

I remember studying this poem in HS and I’ve always liked it.

Because I could not stop for Death—
By Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

I recently came across this in a selection of Dickinson’s poems, and I’d never read it before. I think it’s my favorite one of hers.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee
By Emily Dickinson

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 haven’t posted any Emily Dickinson in quite a while.

I measure every grief I meet
By Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.

There’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call ‘despair,’
There’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.

Well, I have woken up and miraculously don’t feel like death. I’ll take this as a good sign.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers
By Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

This is in honor of my hangover.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
By Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading—treading—till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through—

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum—
Kept beating—beating—till I thought
My Mind was going numb—

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space—began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here—

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down—
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing—then—

So I’m at Heather’s house and I was going to post a poem from her. She doesn’t seem to have her books here, though, so I thought I’d post one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. When I was in grammar school we had an assembly by a group called Poetry Aloud! This was my favorite thing that they did. I recited it for my fourth graders, too, and they loved it!

I’m Nobody
By Emily Dickinson

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!