The first Day’s Night had come —
And grateful that a thing
So terrible — had been endured —
I told my Soul to sing —

She said her Strings were snapt —
Her Bow — to Atoms blown —
And so to mend her — gave me work
Until another Morn —

And then — a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face —
Until it blocked my eyes —

My Brain — begun to laugh —
I mumbled — like a fool —
And tho’ ‘tis Years ago — that Day —
My Brain keeps giggling — still.

And Something’s odd — within —
That person that I was —
And this One — do not feel the same —
Could it be Madness — this?


~Emily Dickinson, #410 (1862)
Emily Dickinson Museum, spring poster by penelope dullaghan, via Flickr

Emily Dickinson Museum, spring poster by penelope dullaghan, via Flickr

Answer July —
Where is the Bee —
Where is the Blush —
Where is the Hay?

Ah, said July —
Where is the Seed —
Where is the Bud —
Where is the May —
Answer Thee — Me —

Nay — said the May —
Show me the Snow —
Show me the Bells —
Show me the Jay!

Quibbled the Jay —
Where be the Maize —
Where be the Haze —
Where be the Bur?
Here — said the Year —


~Emily Dickinson, #386 (1862)
…and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

~Dickinson, Emily. The Letters of Emily Dickinson.  (via wordsnquotes)
Emily Dickinson, letter to Mrs. F. S. Cooper

Emily Dickinson, letter to Mrs. F. S. Cooper

Unable are the Loved to die
For Love is Immortality,
Nay, it is Deity —

Unable they that love — to die
For love reforms Vitality
Into Divinity.


~Emily Dickinson, #810 (1864)

The Skies can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the Hills —
The Hills just tell the Orchards —
And they — the Daffodils!

A Bird — by chance — that goes that way —
Soft overhears the whole —
If I should bribe the little Bird —
Who knows what she would tell?

I think I won’t — however —
It’s finer — not to know —
If Summer were an Axiom —
What sorcery had Snow?

So keep your secret — Father!
I would not — if I could,
Know what the Sapphire Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!


~Emily Dickinson, #191 (1860)
The Bee is not afraid of me.
I know the Butterfly.
The pretty people in the Woods
Receive me cordially —

The Brooks laugh louder when I come —
The Breezes madder play;
Wherefore mine eye thy silver mists,
Wherefore, Oh Summer’s Day?

~Emily Dickinson, #111 (1859)

She sweeps with many-colored Brooms —
And leaves the Shreds behind —
Oh Housewife in the Evening West —
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped a Purple Ravelling in —
You dropped an Amber thread —
And now you’ve littered all the East
With Duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars —
And then I come away.


~Emily Dickinson, #219 (1861)
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