Posts filed under ‘Emily Dickinson’

Hope is the thing with feathers

by Emily Dickinson

(more…)

Advertisements

March 21, 2017 at 3:25 pm Leave a comment

The winters are so short

by Emily Dickinson

(more…)

March 18, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

I’m nobody! Who are you?

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!

(more…)

February 9, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

MAY-FLOWER

poems
POEMS
by EMILY DICKINSON

Pink, small, and punctual,
Aromatic, low,
Covert in April,
Candid in May,

Dear to the moss,
Known by the knoll,
Next to the robin
In every human soul.

Bold little beauty,
Bedecked with thee,
Nature forswears
Antiquity.

May 4, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

THE SLEEPING FLOWERS

poems
POEMS
by EMILY DICKINSON

“Whose are the little beds,” I asked,
“Which in the valleys lie?”
Some shook their heads, and others smiled,
And no one made reply.

“Perhaps they did not hear,” I said;
“I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?”

“‘T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on,
Nearest the door to wake the first,
Little leontodon.

“‘T is iris, sir, and aster,
Anemone and bell,
Batschia in the blanket red,
And chubby daffodil.”

Meanwhile at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied,
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

“Hush! Epigea wakens! —
The crocus stirs her lids,
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson, —
She’s dreaming of the woods.”

Then, turning from them, reverent,
“Their bed-time ‘t is,” she said;
“The bumble-bees will wake them
When April woods are red.”

April 25, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

APRIL

poems
POEMS
by EMILY DICKINSON

An altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot;
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere;
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads, —
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus’ mystery
Receives its annual reply.

April 23, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

A word is dead

by Emily Dickinson

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Fractal

(more…)

April 11, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Older Posts


Categories