Selected Poems

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul.

She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.

Wild Nights—Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile—the winds— To a heart in port— Done with the compass— Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden— Ah, the sea! Might I but moor— Tonight— In thee!

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round – Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Inebriate of Air — am I — And Debauchee of Dew — Reeling — thro endless summer days — From Inns of Molten Blue —

The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more— Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing— At her low Gate— Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat— I've known her—from an ample nation— Choose One— Then—close the Valves of her attention— Like Stone—

This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind; Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less Than I reviled myself For entertaining plated wares Upon my silver shelf.

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.

I never spoke — unless addressed — And then, 'twas brief and low — I could not bear to live — aloud — The Racket shamed me so — And if it had not been so far — And any one I knew Were going — I had often thought How noteless — I could die —

Fate slew him, but he did not drop; She felled -- he did not fall -- Impaled him on her fiercest stakes -- He neutralized them all. She stung him, sapped his firm advance, But, when her worst was done, And he, unmoved, regarded her, Acknowledge him a man.

It's all I have to bring today— This, and my heart beside— This, and my heart, and all the fields— And all the meadows wide— Be sure you count—should I forget Some one the sum could tell— This, and my heart, and all the Bees Which in the Clover dwell.

I took my power in my hand. And went against the world; 'T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold. I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?

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!

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door

I went to heaven, - 'Twas a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.

A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.

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, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down, Whose bonnets touch the firmament, Whose sandals touch the town, ― Meek at whose everlasting feet A myriad daisies play. Which, sir, are you, and which am I. Upon an August day?

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir,— A presence of departed acts At window and at door. Its past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless,—the disease Not even God can heal; For ’t is His institution,— The complement of hell.

I had no cause to be awake, My best was gone to sleep, And morn a new politeness took And failed to wake them up, But called the others clear, 5 And passed their curtains by. Sweet morning, when I over-sleep, Knock, recollect, for me! I looked at sunrise once, And then I looked at them, 10 And wishfulness in me arose For circumstance the same. ’T was such an ample peace, It could not hold a sigh,— ’T was Sabbath with the bells divorced, ’T was sunset all the day. So choosing but a gown And taking but a prayer, The only raiment I should need, I struggled, and was there.

I could not die with you, For one must wait To shut the other’s gaze down,— You could not.

I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf

To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term.

The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.