Tag: Emily Dickinson

Happy Birthday Emily Dickinson

I died for Beauty - but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room -

He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
"For Beauty", I replied -
"And I - for Truth - Themself are One -
We Brethren are",  He said -

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night —
We talked between the Rooms -
Until the Moss had reached our lips -
And covered up  - Our names -

They put Us far apart-

by Emily Dickinson

They put Us far apart—

As separate as Sea

And Her unsown Peninsula—

We signified "These see"—



They took away our Eyes—

They thwarted Us with Guns—

"I see Thee" each responded straight

Through Telegraphic Signs—



With Dungeons—They devised—

But through their thickest skill—

And their opaquest Adamant—

Our Souls saw—just as well—



They summoned Us to die—

With sweet alacrity

We stood upon our stapled feet—

Condemned—but just—to see—



Permission to recant—

Permission to forget—

We turned our backs upon the Sun

For perjury of that—



Not Either—noticed Death—

Of Paradise—aware—

Each other's Face—was all the Disc

Each other's setting—saw—

Nature- by Emily Dickinson

'Nature' is what we see— 
The Hill—the Afternoon— 
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— 
Nay—Nature is Heaven— 
Nature is what we hear— 
The Bobolink—the Sea— 
Thunder—the Cricket— 
Nay—Nature is Harmony— 
Nature is what we know— 
Yet have no art to say— 
So impotent Our Wisdom is 
To her Simplicity.
Crow-Hassan Park Reserve- Three Rivers Parks

Emily Dickinson’s words do not disappoint

LXVI

THERE is a flower that bees prefer,	
And butterflies desire;	
To gain the purple democrat	
The humming-birds aspire.	
  
And whatsoever insect pass,	        
A honey bears away	
Proportioned to his several dearth	
And her capacity.	
  
Her face is rounder than the moon,	
And ruddier than the gown	        
Of orchis in the pasture,	
Or rhododendron worn.	
  
She doth not wait for June;	
Before the world is green	
Her sturdy little countenance	        
Against the wind is seen,	
  
Contending with the grass,	
Near kinsman to herself,	
For privilege of sod and sun,	
Sweet litigants for life.	        
  
And when the hills are full,	
And newer fashions blow,	
Doth not retract a single spice	
For pang of jealousy.	
  
Her public is the noon,	        
Her providence the sun,	
Her progress by the bee proclaimed	
In sovereign, swerveless tune.	
  
The bravest of the host,	
Surrendering the last,	        
Nor even of defeat aware	
When cancelled by the frost.