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Emily Dickinson
(1830 - 1886)

English for Fun <<< Poetry <<< Emily Dickinson

The Grass so little has to do

The Grass so little has to do – A Sphere of simple Green – With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain – And stir all day to pretty Tunes The Breezes fetch along – And hold the Sunshine in its lap And bow to everything – And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls – And make itself so fine A Duchess were too common For such a noticing – And even when it dies – to pass In Odors so divine – Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep – Or Spikenards, perishing – And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell – And dream the Days away, The Grass so little has to do I wish I were a Hay –

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—Too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know! How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one's name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog!

Because I could not stop for Death

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 played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 't is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

The Return

THOUGH I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony! To think just how the fires will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!


I NEVER hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad by soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars-- Only to fail again!

I Gave Myself To Him

I GAVE myself to Him-- And took Himself, for Pay, The solemn contract of a Life Was ratified, this way-- The Wealth might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this great Purchaser suspect, The Daily Own--of Love Depreciate the Vision-- But till the Merchant buy-- Still Fable--in the Isles of Spice-- The subtle Cargoes--lie-- At least--'tis Mutual--Risk-- Some--found it--Mutual Gain-- Sweet Debt of Life--Each Night to owe-- Insolvent--every Noon--


PAIN--has an Element of Blank-- It cannot recollect When it begun--or if there were A time when it was not-- It has no Future--but itself-- Its Infinite Contain Its Past--enlightened to perceive New Periods--of Pain.

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