Poems of Emily Dickinson, series 2 | Page 8

say that bright majority?Of vanished dames and men!?Some think it service in the place?Where we, with late, celestial face,?Please God, shall ascertain!
LVII.
CALLED BACK.
Just lost when I was saved!?Just felt the world go by!?Just girt me for the onset with eternity,?When breath blew back,?And on the other side?I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,?Odd secrets of the line to tell!?Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,?Some pale reporter from the awful doors?Before the seal!
Next time, to stay!?Next time, the things to see?By ear unheard,?Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,?While the ages steal, --?Slow tramp the centuries,?And the cycles wheel.
II.
LOVE.
I.
CHOICE.
Of all the souls that stand create?I have elected one.?When sense from spirit files away,?And subterfuge is done;
When that which is and that which was?Apart, intrinsic, stand,?And this brief tragedy of flesh?Is shifted like a sand;
When figures show their royal front?And mists are carved away, --?Behold the atom I preferred?To all the lists of clay!
II.
I have no life but this,?To lead it here;?Nor any death, but lest?Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,?Nor action new,?Except through this extent,?The realm of you.
III.
Your riches taught me poverty.?Myself a millionnaire?In little wealths, -- as girls could boast, --?Till broad as Buenos Ayre,
You drifted your dominions?A different Peru;?And I esteemed all poverty,?For life's estate with you.
Of mines I little know, myself,?But just the names of gems, --?The colors of the commonest;?And scarce of diadems
So much that, did I meet the queen,?Her glory I should know:?But this must be a different wealth,?To miss it beggars so.
I 'm sure 't is India all day?To those who look on you?Without a stint, without a blame, --?Might I but be the Jew!
I 'm sure it is Golconda,?Beyond my power to deem, --?To have a smile for mine each day,?How better than a gem!
At least, it solaces to know?That there exists a gold,?Although I prove it just in time?Its distance to behold!
It 's far, far treasure to surmise,?And estimate the pearl?That slipped my simple fingers through?While just a girl at school!
IV.
THE CONTRACT.
I gave myself to him,?And took himself for pay.?The solemn contract of a life?Was ratified this way.
The wealth might disappoint,?Myself a poorer prove?Than this great purchaser suspect,?The daily own of Love
Depreciate the vision;?But, till the merchant buy,?Still fable, in the isles of spice,?The subtle cargoes lie.
At least, 't is mutual risk, --?Some found it mutual gain;?Sweet debt of Life, -- each night to owe,?Insolvent, every noon.
V.
THE LETTER.
"GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him --?Tell him the page I did n't write;?Tell him I only said the syntax,?And left the verb and the pronoun out.?Tell him just how the fingers hurried,?Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow;?And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,?So you could see what moved them so.
"Tell him it was n't a practised writer,?You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;?You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,?As if it held but the might of a child;?You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.?Tell him -- No, you may quibble there,?For it would split his heart to know it,?And then you and I were silenter.
"Tell him night finished before we finished,?And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'?And you got sleepy and begged to be ended --?What could it hinder so, to say??Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,?But if he ask where you are hid?Until to-morrow, -- happy letter!?Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"
VI.
The way I read a letter 's this:?'T is first I lock the door,?And push it with my fingers next,?For transport it be sure.
And then I go the furthest off?To counteract a knock;?Then draw my little letter forth?And softly pick its lock.
Then, glancing narrow at the wall,?And narrow at the floor,?For firm conviction of a mouse?Not exorcised before,
Peruse how infinite I am?To -- no one that you know!?And sigh for lack of heaven, -- but not?The heaven the creeds bestow.
VII.
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?To-night in thee!
VIII.
AT HOME.
The night was wide, and furnished scant?With but a single star,?That often as a cloud it met?Blew out itself for fear.
The wind pursued the little bush,?And drove away the leaves?November left; then clambered up?And fretted in the eaves.
No squirrel went abroad;?A dog's belated feet?Like intermittent plush were heard?Adown the empty street.
To feel if blinds be fast,?And closer to the fire?Her little rocking-chair to draw,?And shiver for the poor,
The housewife's gentle task.?"How pleasanter," said she?Unto the sofa opposite,?"The sleet than May -- no thee!"
IX.
POSSESSION.
Did the harebell loose her girdle?To the lover bee,?Would the bee the harebell hallow?Much as formerly?
Did the paradise, persuaded,?Yield her moat of pearl,?Would the Eden be an Eden,?Or the earl an earl?
X.
A charm invests a face?Imperfectly beheld, --?The lady dare not lift her veil?For fear