Poems of Emily Dickinson, series 2 | Page 6

moment be,
Brewed
from decades of agony!

To think just how the fire will burn,
Just how long-cheated eyes will
turn
To wonder what myself will say,
And what itself will say to
me,
Beguiles the centuries of way!
XXIII.
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,
That sat it down to rest,
Nor
noticed that the ebbing day
Flowed silver to the west,
Nor noticed
night did soft descend
Nor constellation burn,
Intent upon the
vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels, happening that way,
This dusty heart espied;
Tenderly
took it up from toil
And carried it to God.
There, -- sandals for the
barefoot;
There, -- gathered from the gales,
Do the blue havens by
the hand
Lead the wandering sails.
XXIV.
TOO MUCH.
I should have been too glad, I see,
Too lifted for the scant degree
Of life's penurious round;
My little circuit would have shamed
This
new circumference, have blamed
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved, I see,
Too rescued; fear too dim to me
That I could spell the prayer
I knew so perfect yesterday, --
That
scalding one, "Sabachthani,"
Recited fluent here.
Earth would have been too much, I see,
And heaven not enough for
me;

I should have had the joy
Without the fear to justify, --
The palm
without the Calvary;
So, Saviour, crucify.
Defeat whets victory, they say;
The reefs in old Gethsemane
Endear the shore beyond.
'T is beggars banquets best define;
'T is
thirsting vitalizes wine, --
Faith faints to understand.
XXV.
SHIPWRECK.
It tossed and tossed, --
A little brig I knew, --
O'ertook by blast,
It
spun and spun,
And groped delirious, for morn.
It slipped and slipped,
As one that drunken stepped;
Its white foot
tripped,
Then dropped from sight.
Ah, brig, good-night
To crew and you;
The ocean's heart too
smooth, too blue,
To break for you.
XXVI.
Victory comes late,
And is held low to freezing lips
Too rapt with
frost
To take it.
How sweet it would have tasted,
Just a drop!

Was God so economical?
His table 's spread too high for us
Unless
we dine on tip-toe.
Crumbs fit such little mouths,
Cherries suit
robins;
The eagle's golden breakfast
Strangles them.
God keeps
his oath to sparrows,
Who of little love
Know how to starve!
XXVII.
ENOUGH.

God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat
it, though I starve, --
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove
the feat
That made the pellet mine, --
Too happy in my sparrow
chance
For ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty
smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the
rich may feel, --
An Indiaman -- an Earl?
I deem that I with but a
crumb
Am sovereign of them all.
XXVIII.
Experiment to me
Is every one I meet.
If it contain a kernel?
The
figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree,
Equally plausibly;
But meat within is requisite,

To squirrels and to me.
XXIX.
MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE.
My country need not change her gown,
Her triple suit as sweet
As
when 't was cut at Lexington,
And first pronounced "a fit."
Great Britain disapproves "the stars;"
Disparagement discreet, --

There 's something in their attitude
That taunts her bayonet.
XXX.
Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes
are prudent
In an emergency!
XXXI.
Except the heaven had come so near,
So seemed to choose my door,


The distance would not haunt me so;
I had not hoped before.
But just to hear the grace depart
I never thought to see,
Afflicts me
with a double loss;
'T is lost, and lost to me.
XXXII.
Portraits are to daily faces
As an evening west
To a fine, pedantic
sunshine
In a satin vest.
XXXIII.
THE DUEL.
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?
XXXIV.
A shady friend for torrid days
Is easier to find
Than one of higher
temperature
For frigid hour of mind.
The vane a little to the east
Scares muslin souls away;
If broadcloth
breasts are firmer
Than those of organdy,
Who is to blame? The weaver?
Ah! the bewildering thread!
The
tapestries of paradise
So notelessly are made!
XXXV.
THE GOAL.
Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in
every human nature
A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
Too fair
For credibility's
temerity
To dare.
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
To reach
Were hopeless as
the rainbow's raiment
To touch,
Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;
How high
Unto the
saints' slow diligence
The sky!
Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,
But then,
Eternity
enables the endeavoring
Again.
XXXVI.
SIGHT.
Before I got my eye put out,
I liked as well to see
As other creatures
that have eyes,
And know no other way.
But were it told to me, to-day,
That I might have the sky
For mine, I
tell you that my heart
Would split, for size of me.
The meadows mine, the mountains mine, --
All forests, stintless stars,

As much of noon as I could take
Between my finite eyes.
The motions of the dipping birds,
The lightning's jointed road,
For
mine to look