Emy’s Reviews > The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson > Status Update
Emy
is 35% done
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn’t care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.
— Sep 10, 2021 12:31PM
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn’t care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.
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Emy’s Previous Updates
Emy
is 54% done
"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
— Oct 01, 2021 05:17PM
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
Emy
is 50% done
"Proud of my broken heart since thou didst
break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night since thou with moons dost
slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
— Sep 22, 2021 02:04PM
break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night since thou with moons dost
slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Emy
is 38% done
THE pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
— Sep 18, 2021 04:44PM
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
Emy
is 29% done
YOU cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.
— Sep 08, 2021 04:59AM
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.
Emy
is 27% done
There’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call “despair”;
There’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
— Sep 04, 2021 10:13AM
A sort they call “despair”;
There’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
Emy
is 16% done
I found the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me,—as a hand
Did try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark;—
How would your own begin?
Can blaze be done in cochineal,
Or noon in mazarin?
— Aug 30, 2021 10:39AM
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me,—as a hand
Did try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark;—
How would your own begin?
Can blaze be done in cochineal,
Or noon in mazarin?
