Favorite Poets or Poems:
Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
I spend a lot of time on my blog talking about
authors of traditional large volume books, but there are other types of books, including
poetry. My favorite poet ever is Emily
Dickinson, and would love to share some of her works with you. If you’ve never read her poetry, I really
hope you like it. If you’re already a
fan, then please let me know if I’ve missed your favorite. I will always take reading suggestions!
authors of traditional large volume books, but there are other types of books, including
poetry. My favorite poet ever is Emily
Dickinson, and would love to share some of her works with you. If you’ve never read her poetry, I really
hope you like it. If you’re already a
fan, then please let me know if I’ve missed your favorite. I will always take reading suggestions!
Because I Could Not Stop
for Death
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 strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
We Grow Accustomed to the
Dark
Dark
We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye —
A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road — erect —
And so of larger — Darkness —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out — within —
The Bravest — grope a little —
And sometimes hit a Tree
in the Forehead —
But as they learn to see —
Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.
Hope is
the Thing With Feathers
the Thing With Feathers
‘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.
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