Emily Dickinson #23 [1858]

I had a guinea golden-
I lost it in the sand-
And tho' the sum was simple
And pounds were in the hand-
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye-
That when I could not find it-
I sat down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin-
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away-
Time brought me other Robins-
Their ballads were the same-
Still, for my missing Troubadour
I kept the "house at hame."

I had a star in heaven-
One "Pleiad" was its name-
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho' the skies are crowded-
And all the night ashine-
I do not care about it-
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral-
I have a missing friend-
"Pleiad" its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear-
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here-
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind-
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.

Emily Dickinson - #280 [1896]

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My Mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

Emily Dickinson - #315 [1862]

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players of the Keys

Before they drop full Music on-

He stuns you by degrees-

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

by fainter Hammers- further heard-

Then nearer- Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten-

Your Brain- to bubble Cool-

Deals- One- imperial- Thunderbolt-

That scalps your named Soul-

When Winds take Forests in their Paws-

The Universe- is still-

Emily Dickinson - #254

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

and never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of Me