- Emily Dickinson.
Grief is a Mouse—
And chooses Wainscot in the Breast
For His Shy House—
And baffles quest—
Grief is a Thief—quick startled—
Pricks His Ear—report to hear
Of that Vast Dark—
That swept His Being—back—
Grief is a Juggler—boldest at the Play—
Lest if He flinch—the eye that way
Pounce on His Bruises—One—say—or Three—
Grief is a Gourmand—spare His luxury—
Best Grief is Tongueless—before He’ll tell—
Burn Him in the Public Square—
His Ashes—will
Possibly—if they refuse—How then know—
Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable—now.
Ere so sober Emily
Did New England sow
With brooms of activity
I’d the tree-rock spoken to.
But it only said to me
“This sleet’s crack
You hear cracking my hide
Is the voice of olden poets
Not far from rocks of here
Did their olden eyes
On nature bestow blue
—” I said
“Ah Oh How So Sad.”
I said—”And graves?”
And I said “Darling
Supposing it should
To nature
Suddenly Occur
To make unending poets
Unendingly Blow”
Nature Said: “Mean,
I dont know what you
Mean”—
“Ah Nature, Ah Rock,”
I cried, “Nobody’s Bone
Has so suffusèd been,
No burden of boredom
Greater
No love colder
No love life less
No grave nearer
Always
Than Ye Bard”
My Cocoon tightens—Colors tease—
I’m feeling for the Air—
A dim capacity for Wings
Demeans the Dress I wear—
A power of Butterfly must be—
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty implies
And easy Sweeps of Sky—
So I must baffle at the Hint
And cipher at the Sign
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clue divine—
Perhaps they do not go so far
As we who stay, suppose—
Perhaps come closer, for the lapse
Of their corporeal clothes—
It may be know so certainly
How short we have to fear
That comprehension antedates
And estimates us there—
How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights—
When people have put out the Lights
And everything that has an Inn
Closes the shutter and goes in—
How pompous the Wind must feel Noons
Stepping to incorporeal Tunes
Correcting errors of the sky
And clarifying scenery
How mighty the wind must feel Morns
Encamping on a thousand dawns
Espousing each and spurning all
Then soaring to his Temple Tall—
The Women of Victorian Literature Tea Blends
Each of these are based in almond oolong, vanilla oolong and marigold flowers to tie them together but each has there own jammy, fruit baked good flavor such as raspberry, apricot, blueberry, and blackberry.
Emily Dickinson l almond oolong, vanilla oolong, raspberry with marigold flowers and raspberry leaves {Purchase Here}
Jane Austen l almond oolong, vanilla oolong, apricot with marigold flowers {Purchase Here}
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley l almond oolong, vanilla oolong, blackberry with marigold flowers and apple pieces {Purchase Here}
The Brontë Sisters l almond oolong, vanilla oolong, blueberry with marigold flowers and apple pieces {Purchase Here}
I plan on doing more of these, but I thought I would start off with my favorites first. My other blends are here.
You cannot put a Fire out—
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan—
Upon the slowest Night—
You cannot fold a Flood—
And put it in a Drawer—
Because the Winds would find it out—
And tell your Cedar Floor—
Jodie Foster as Rynn Jacobs in The Little Girl Who Lives Down The Lane
