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Emily Dickinson Poems
Few of Emily Dickinson's poems were published in her lifetime. After her death the editing of her poetry into a publishable manuscript fell to an Amherst friend, Mabel Loomis Todd who eventually enlisted the aid of T. W. Higginson. The collection was first published in 1890 with some work slightly altered by the editors to make them more accessible to the 19th century ear. Dickinson's power came through clearly and the publication went through 11 printings. This volume reproduces that 1890 collection which was the first time much of her work was published. Witty, wry, subversive, incisive and celebratory, these poems lay the foundation for Dickinson's literary reputation.
122 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 1998
3 people are currently reading
23 people want to read
About the author
Emily Dickinson
1,555 books6,900 followersEmily Dickinson was an American poet who, despite the fact that less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime, is widely considered one of the most original and influential poets of the 19th century.
Dickinson was born to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.
Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content.
A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.
For more information, please see http://www.answers.com/topic/emily-di...
Dickinson was born to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.
Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content.
A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.
For more information, please see http://www.answers.com/topic/emily-di...
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
November 23, 2019
I used to think I didn't like Emily Dickinson's poetry (back when I was in 7th grade and had to read a short collection of her work). However, I've been on a major poetry kick lately, so I thought I'd give her another shot--and I'm glad I did. Even the poems I don't necessarily connect to or like, I can appreciate for their depth and the developments she brought to poetry.
There are occasions where I wish she had fully went for the rhyme instead of breaking up the rhythm by putting in an un-rhyming word or a marginally-rhyming word, but, again, I can appreciate the exploration she was doing.
Side note: this collection made me realize homegirl’s got a major thing for exclamation points.
Following are my favorite poems in this collection (in order of appearance, except for the first one which was my absolutely favorite and spoke to me beyond words so I'm frontloading it).
----------
My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I ’m feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.
A power of butterfly must be
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.
So I must baffle at the hint
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.
----------
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side the victory!
Life is but life, and death but death!
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
And if, indeed, I fail,
At least to now the worst is sweet.
Defeat means nothing but defeat,
No drearier can prevail!
And if I gain,--oh, gun at sea,
Oh, bells that in the steeples be,
At first repeat it slow!
For heaven is a different thing,
Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o'erwhelm me so!
----------
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
----------
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty,
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true:
He lived where dreams were born.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
----------
Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
----------
To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.
----------
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
----------
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
-----------
Mine by the right of the white election!
Mine by the royal seal!
Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison
Bars cannot conceal!
Mine, here in vision and in veto!
Mine, by the grave’s repeal
Titled, confirmed,—delirious charter!
Mine, while the ages steal!
----------
YOU left me, sweet, two legacies,—
A legacy of love
A Heavenly Father would content,
Had He the offer of;
You left me boundaries of pain
Capacious as the sea,
Between eternity and time,
Your consciousness and me.
----------
Alter? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.
Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!
----------
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.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
----------
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
-----------
Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?
And nobody, knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry!
----------
As if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in—
What then? Why, nothing,
Only your inference therefrom!
----------
There came a day at summer’s full
Entirely for me;
I thought that such were for the saints,
Where revelations be.
The sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no sail the solstice passed
That maketh all things new.
The time was scarce profaned by speech;
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at sacrament
The wardrobe of our Lord.
Each was to each the sealed church,
Permitted to commune this time,
Lest we too awkward show
At supper of the Lamb.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to opposing lands.
And so, when all the time had failed,
Without external sound,
Each bound the other’s crucifix,
We gave no other bond.
Sufficient troth that we shall rise—
Deposed, at length, the grave—
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love!
----------
The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
----------
A something in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon,—
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright,
I clap my hands to see;
Then veil my too inspecting face,
Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me.
The wizard-fingers never rest,
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed;
Still rears the East her amber flag,
Guides still the sun along the crag
His caravan of red,
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their low brows;
Or bees, that thought the summer’s name
Some rumor of delirium
No summer could for them;
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred
By tropic hint,—some travelled bird
Imported to the wood;
Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,
Making that homely and severe,
Contented, known, before
The heaven unexpected came,
To lives that thought their worshipping
A too presumptuous psalm.
----------
This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!
Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
----------
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
----------
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,—
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timed leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
----------
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
----------
I like a look of agony,
Because I know it ’s true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death.
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung.
----------
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
----------
Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father’s lodge
As much abasheth me.
Of life? ‘T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity’s decree.
Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown!
----------
The sun kept setting, setting still;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived,—
From house to house ’t was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.
My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make?
How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
’T is dying, I am doing; but
I ’m not afraid to know.
----------
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
At wrestling in a ring;
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.
----------
It was too late for man,
But early yet for God;
Creation impotent to help,
But prayer remained our side.
How excellent the heaven,
When earth cannot be had;
How hospitable, then, the face
Of our old neighbor, God!
----------
I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You ’ll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!
There are occasions where I wish she had fully went for the rhyme instead of breaking up the rhythm by putting in an un-rhyming word or a marginally-rhyming word, but, again, I can appreciate the exploration she was doing.
Side note: this collection made me realize homegirl’s got a major thing for exclamation points.
Following are my favorite poems in this collection (in order of appearance, except for the first one which was my absolutely favorite and spoke to me beyond words so I'm frontloading it).
----------
My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I ’m feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.
A power of butterfly must be
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.
So I must baffle at the hint
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.
----------
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side the victory!
Life is but life, and death but death!
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
And if, indeed, I fail,
At least to now the worst is sweet.
Defeat means nothing but defeat,
No drearier can prevail!
And if I gain,--oh, gun at sea,
Oh, bells that in the steeples be,
At first repeat it slow!
For heaven is a different thing,
Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o'erwhelm me so!
----------
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
----------
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty,
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true:
He lived where dreams were born.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
----------
Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
----------
To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.
----------
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
----------
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
-----------
Mine by the right of the white election!
Mine by the royal seal!
Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison
Bars cannot conceal!
Mine, here in vision and in veto!
Mine, by the grave’s repeal
Titled, confirmed,—delirious charter!
Mine, while the ages steal!
----------
YOU left me, sweet, two legacies,—
A legacy of love
A Heavenly Father would content,
Had He the offer of;
You left me boundaries of pain
Capacious as the sea,
Between eternity and time,
Your consciousness and me.
----------
Alter? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.
Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!
----------
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.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
----------
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
-----------
Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?
And nobody, knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry!
----------
As if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in—
What then? Why, nothing,
Only your inference therefrom!
----------
There came a day at summer’s full
Entirely for me;
I thought that such were for the saints,
Where revelations be.
The sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no sail the solstice passed
That maketh all things new.
The time was scarce profaned by speech;
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at sacrament
The wardrobe of our Lord.
Each was to each the sealed church,
Permitted to commune this time,
Lest we too awkward show
At supper of the Lamb.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to opposing lands.
And so, when all the time had failed,
Without external sound,
Each bound the other’s crucifix,
We gave no other bond.
Sufficient troth that we shall rise—
Deposed, at length, the grave—
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love!
----------
The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
----------
A something in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon,—
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright,
I clap my hands to see;
Then veil my too inspecting face,
Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me.
The wizard-fingers never rest,
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed;
Still rears the East her amber flag,
Guides still the sun along the crag
His caravan of red,
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their low brows;
Or bees, that thought the summer’s name
Some rumor of delirium
No summer could for them;
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred
By tropic hint,—some travelled bird
Imported to the wood;
Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,
Making that homely and severe,
Contented, known, before
The heaven unexpected came,
To lives that thought their worshipping
A too presumptuous psalm.
----------
This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!
Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
----------
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
----------
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,—
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timed leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
----------
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
----------
I like a look of agony,
Because I know it ’s true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death.
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung.
----------
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
----------
Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father’s lodge
As much abasheth me.
Of life? ‘T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity’s decree.
Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown!
----------
The sun kept setting, setting still;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived,—
From house to house ’t was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.
My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make?
How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
’T is dying, I am doing; but
I ’m not afraid to know.
----------
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
At wrestling in a ring;
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.
----------
It was too late for man,
But early yet for God;
Creation impotent to help,
But prayer remained our side.
How excellent the heaven,
When earth cannot be had;
How hospitable, then, the face
Of our old neighbor, God!
----------
I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You ’ll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!
May 11, 2016
Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.
What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.
What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!
August 20, 2023
Okay so Emily may have convinced me that I actually do like poetry. This book is a reproduction of her first book of poetry published in 1890 by her two friends, Mabel Loomis Todd and T.W. Higginson. Dickinson maybe only published a handful of poems during her life, and in pretty small publications, so this is essentially the first official glimpse the public got of her work.
Honestly, I can see why those Victorian-era white folks were losing their minds over Emily Dickinson, because this shit is good. It took me forever to just read essentially a handful of poems because every time I finished one, I had to read it over slowly a couple more times to really appreciate it, then look online for some analysis so I could really get the full picture and scope of what she was trying to say, and only then officially move onto the next one. On top of that, I was reading a bunch of stuff online about her life to properly get an idea of where she was coming from, but even so, she infuses a good portion of her identity into her poems.
Emily Dickinson was essentially a recluse living on her father's property from the day of her birth to the day of her death, and during that time she wrote nearly 1,800 poems on literally everything - in this selection, the poems are divided into life, love, nature, and time. It's a pretty general scope of poems to write about, but while I'm definitely no expert on poetry, she just had this way with words that was absolutely stunning. She wrote without the desire of ever being published and having her works seen, and on her deathbed she actually had her sister swear to burn her poems.
It's kind of ironic that she's become a staple of American poetic canon, simply because it's pretty clear throughout her life and her poems that fame is quite literally the last thing she wanted. (I have a bit of beef with the Dickinson series, because while I've never watched it, it said in the synopsis that Emily's goal was to become one of the greatest poets of all time and have her name known everywhere, which like, couldn't be farther from the truth.) I honestly feel kind of bad just about reading this selection, since it's pretty clear that she was mortified by the idea of her poems being known, but her poems are honest to god so good. She writes without the limits of criticism or worry of being viewed by others, which really results in some poetry that is both fascinating and original. Really, I think everyone should try to give her a read.
Honestly, I can see why those Victorian-era white folks were losing their minds over Emily Dickinson, because this shit is good. It took me forever to just read essentially a handful of poems because every time I finished one, I had to read it over slowly a couple more times to really appreciate it, then look online for some analysis so I could really get the full picture and scope of what she was trying to say, and only then officially move onto the next one. On top of that, I was reading a bunch of stuff online about her life to properly get an idea of where she was coming from, but even so, she infuses a good portion of her identity into her poems.
Emily Dickinson was essentially a recluse living on her father's property from the day of her birth to the day of her death, and during that time she wrote nearly 1,800 poems on literally everything - in this selection, the poems are divided into life, love, nature, and time. It's a pretty general scope of poems to write about, but while I'm definitely no expert on poetry, she just had this way with words that was absolutely stunning. She wrote without the desire of ever being published and having her works seen, and on her deathbed she actually had her sister swear to burn her poems.
It's kind of ironic that she's become a staple of American poetic canon, simply because it's pretty clear throughout her life and her poems that fame is quite literally the last thing she wanted. (I have a bit of beef with the Dickinson series, because while I've never watched it, it said in the synopsis that Emily's goal was to become one of the greatest poets of all time and have her name known everywhere, which like, couldn't be farther from the truth.) I honestly feel kind of bad just about reading this selection, since it's pretty clear that she was mortified by the idea of her poems being known, but her poems are honest to god so good. She writes without the limits of criticism or worry of being viewed by others, which really results in some poetry that is both fascinating and original. Really, I think everyone should try to give her a read.
June 16, 2012
Every once in a while you read a writer who makes you realize how pedestrian your own writing is, as well as virtually everyone else’s. Emily Dickinson is such a writer. Unmarried, untraveled and writing before 1887, she nevertheless wrote in a modern, worldly and powerful style at which I can only marvel. The meaning of life, death and eternity seem much clearer in her slender hands.
Even though I previously read some of her work as a child, I can only fully appreciate her now that I have the context which life’s experiences bring. Accordingly, if you have read her before, but not in the recent past, by all means revisit her work. If you have never read her before, run, don’t walk, to read a master.
Even though I previously read some of her work as a child, I can only fully appreciate her now that I have the context which life’s experiences bring. Accordingly, if you have read her before, but not in the recent past, by all means revisit her work. If you have never read her before, run, don’t walk, to read a master.
December 16, 2024
I feel ambivalent about Emily Dickinson. I also feel like I am missing something, because I know so many folks, including authors I love and look up to, find her writing to be filled with wisdom. Nevertheless, although there were lines and couplets here and there that spoke to me, I struggled to find any one poem that I felt I would return to again and again as I do with other poets.
July 3, 2024
I finally got my hands on this one! This volume reproduces the first collection of poems that were edited and published after ED’s death.
I’ll forever have a bone to pick with Mabel but it was interesting to see what poems made the cut in what was basically her introduction to the world.
I’ll forever have a bone to pick with Mabel but it was interesting to see what poems made the cut in what was basically her introduction to the world.
January 26, 2024
Crazy what a bad editor can do to a poet’s style, but it’s cool to notice differences compared to newer versions of her poems
February 11, 2024
Beautiful poetry. Emily has such unique style. Her careful word choice is so evident in each verse. And her complex insights and imagery get me thinking so much while I read.
January 28, 2025
“Suspense” was pretty good. “Real” was good. I’m sorry… I read it twice, the rest were not charming, compelling, surprising.
April 15, 2017
3.5 stars.
The edition I read is a reproduction volume of the first collection of Emily Dickinson poems ever published, edited and selected after her death. It was the first glimpse of her work the public had, and it contains many of her best poems. This isn't my favorite collection of Dickinson's poems but its still a pretty good place to start if you're picking up her work for the first time.
The edition I read is a reproduction volume of the first collection of Emily Dickinson poems ever published, edited and selected after her death. It was the first glimpse of her work the public had, and it contains many of her best poems. This isn't my favorite collection of Dickinson's poems but its still a pretty good place to start if you're picking up her work for the first time.
January 1, 2018
I have been getting into poetry lately and knew that I would have to read some of Emily Dickinson's.
Anyway, I was lucky enough to find this book at a used bookstore and really enjoyed myself reading her poetry. I mean its just s beautiful and moving. I was really surprised how much of it can be related to our current generation and the different difficult issues people face.
Anyway, I was lucky enough to find this book at a used bookstore and really enjoyed myself reading her poetry. I mean its just s beautiful and moving. I was really surprised how much of it can be related to our current generation and the different difficult issues people face.
March 10, 2016
If I liked poems the rating would have been higher, I was going to give this one star but I gave it 2 because I can understand why these would be good to somebody who likes poems. If you like poems this book is for you!
December 31, 2014
She was so talented, without knowing it. I do wish there was a few more of her poems, but this was a lovely collection.
May 26, 2018
Always good!
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