Additional Dickinson Poems:

I'm Nobody! Who are you? (288) (aka #85)

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you&emdash;Nobody&emdash;Too?

Then there's a pair of us!

Don't tell! they'd advertise&emdash;you know!

How dreary&emdash;to be&emdash;Somebody!

How public&emdash;like a Frog&emdash;

To tell one's name&emdash;the livelong June&emdash;

To an admiring Bog!

c. 1861

#254 ("'Hope' is the thing with feathers &endash;") (aka #63)

"Hope" is the thing with feathers&emdash;

That perches on the soul&emdash;

And sings the tune without the words&emdash;

And never stops&emdash;at all&emdash;

And sweetest&emdash;in the Gale&emdash;is heard&emdash;

And sore must be the storm&emdash;

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm&emdash;

I've heard it in the chillest land&emdash;

And on the strangest Sea&emdash;

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb&emdash;of Me.

c. 1861

#315("He fumbles at your Soul") (aka #105)

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on&emdash;

He stuns you by degrees&emdash;

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers&emdash;further heard&emdash;

Then nearer&emdash;Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten&emdash;

Your Brain&emdash;to bubble Cool&emdash;

Deals&emdash;One&emdash;imperial&emdash;Thunderbolt&emdash;

That scalps your naked Soul&emdash;

When Winds take Forests in their Paws&emdash;

The Universe&emdash;is still&emdash;

c. 1862

#511("If you were coming in the Fall,") (aka #205)

If you were coming in the Fall,

I'd brush the Summer by

With half a smile, and half a spurn,

As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I'd wind the months in balls&emdash;

And put them each in separate Drawers,

For fear the numbers fuse&emdash;

If only Centuries, delayed,

I'd count them on my Hand,

Subtracting, til my fingers dropped

Into Van Dieman's Land.

If certain, when this life was out&emdash;

That yours and mine, should be

I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,

And take Eternity&emdash;

But, now, uncertain of the length

Of this, that is between,

It goads me like the Goblin Bee&emdash;

That will not state&emdash;its sting.

c.1862

#510("It was not Death, for I stood up") (aka #510)

It was not Death, for I stood up,

And all the Dead, lie down&emdash;

It was not Night, for all the Bells

Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh

I felt Siroccos&emdash;crawl&emdash;

Nor Fire&emdash;for just my Marble feet

Could keep a Chancel, cool&emdash;

And yet, it tasted, like them all,

The Figures I have seen

Set orderly, for Burial,

Reminded me, of mine&emdash;

As if my life were shaven,

And fitted to a frame,

And could not breathe without a key,

And 'twas like Midnight, some&emdash;

When everything that ticked&emdash;has stopped&emdash;

And Space stares all around&emdash;

Or Grisly frosts&emdash;first Autumn morns,

Repeal the Beating Ground&emdash;

But, most, like Chaos&emdash;Stopless&emdash;cool&emdash;

Without a Chance, or Spar&emdash;

Or even a Report of Land&emdash;

To justify&emdash;Despair.

c. 1862

#324("Some keep the Sabbath going to Church&endash;") (aka #112)

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church&emdash;

I keep it, staying at Home&emdash;

With a Bobolink for a Chorister&emdash;

And an Orchard, for a Dome&emdash;

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice&emdash;

I just wear my Wings&emdash;

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton&emdash;sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman&emdash;

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at least&emdash;

I'm going, all along.

c.1860