A Collection
Poems for the in-between.
Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.
Emily Dickinson
Not at Home to Callers Says the Naked Tree -- Bonnet due in April -- Wishing you Good Day --
Emily Dickinson
Summer begins to have the look Peruser of enchanting Book Reluctantly but sure perceives A gain upon the backward leaves -- Autumn begins to be inferred By millinery of the cloud Or deeper color in the shawl That wraps the everlasting hill. The eye begins its avarice A meditation chastens speech Some Dyer of a distant tree Resumes his gaudy industry. Conclusion is the course of All At most to be perennial And then elude stability Recalls to immortality.
Emily Dickinson
Could Hope inspect her Basis Her Craft were done -- Has a fictitious Charter Or it has none -- Balked in the vastest instance But to renew -- Felled by but one assassin -- Prosperity --
Emily Dickinson
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory As he defeated -- dying -- On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear!
Emily Dickinson
I Years had been from Home And now before the Door I dared not enter, lest a Face I never saw before Stare solid into mine And ask my Business there -- "My Business but a Life I left Was such remaining there?" I leaned upon the Awe -- I lingered with Before -- The Second like an Ocean rolled And broke against my ear -- I laughed a crumbling Laugh That I could fear a Door Who Consternation compassed And never winced before. I fitted to the Latch My Hand, with trembling care Lest back the awful Door should spring And leave me in the Floor -- Then moved my Fingers off As cautiously as Glass And held my ears, and like a Thief Fled gasping from the House --
Emily Dickinson
Musicians wrestle everywhere -- All day -- among the crowded air I hear the silver strife -- And -- walking -- long before the morn -- Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that "New Life"! If is not Bird -- it has no nest -- Nor "Band" -- in brass and scarlet -- drest -- Nor Tamborin -- nor Man -- It is not Hymn from pulpit read -- The "Morning Stars" the Treble led On Time's first Afternoon! Some -- say -- it is "the Spheres" -- at play! Some 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!
Emily Dickinson
Where Thou art -- that -- is Home -- Cashmere -- or Calvary -- the same -- Degree -- or Shame -- I scarce esteem Location's Name -- So I may Come -- What Thou dost -- is Delight -- Bondage as Play -- be sweet -- Imprisonment -- Content -- And Sentence -- Sacrament -- Just We two -- meet -- Where Thou art not -- is Woe -- Tho' Bands of Spices -- row -- What Thou dost not -- Despair -- Tho' Gabriel -- praise me -- Sire --
Emily Dickinson
A Wind that rose Though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred But with itself did cold engage Beyond the Realm of Bird -- A Wind that woke a lone Delight Like Separation's Swell Restored in Arctic Confidence To the Invisible --
Emily Dickinson
How know it from a Summer's Day? Its Fervors are as firm -- And nothing in the Countenance But scintillates the same -- Yet Birds examine it and flee -- And Vans without a name Inspect the Admonition And sunder as they came --
Emily Dickinson
Remorse -- is Memory -- awake -- Her Parties all 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 -- And help Belief to stretch -- Remorse is cureless -- the Disease Not even God -- can heal -- For 'tis His institution -- and The Adequate of Hell --
Emily Dickinson
There is a flower that Bees prefer -- And Butterflies -- desire -- To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird -- aspire -- And Whatsoever Insect pass -- A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her -- capacity -- Her face be rounder than the Moon And ruddier than the Gown Or Orchis in the Pasture -- Or Rhododendron -- worn -- She doth not wait for June -- Before the World be Green -- Her sturdy little Countenance Against the Wind -- be seen -- Contending with the Grass -- Near Kinsman to Herself -- For Privilege of Sod and Sun -- Sweet Litigants for Life -- And when the Hills be full -- And newer fashions blow -- Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy -- Her Public -- be the Noon -- Her Providence -- the Sun -- Her Progress -- by the Bee -- proclaimed -- In sovereign -- Swerveless Tune -- The Bravest -- of the Host -- Surrendering -- the last -- Nor even of Defeat -- aware -- What cancelled by the Frost --
Emily Dickinson
One Year ago -- jots what? God -- spell the word! I -- can't -- Was't Grace? Not that -- Was't Glory? That -- will do -- Spell slower -- Glory -- Such Anniversary shall be --
Emily Dickinson
She's happy, with a new Content -- That feels to her -- like Sacrament -- She's busy -- with an altered Care -- As just apprenticed to the Air -- She's tearful -- if she weep at all -- For blissful Causes -- Most of all That Heaven permit so meek as her -- To such a Fate -- to Minister.
Emily Dickinson
The One who could repeat the Summer day -- Were greater than itself -- though He Minutest of Mankind should be -- And He -- could reproduce the Sun -- At period of going down -- The Lingering -- and the Stain -- I mean -- When Orient have been outgrown And Occident -- become Unknown -- His Name -- remain --
Emily Dickinson
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 be --
Emily Dickinson
Whatever it is -- she has tried it -- Awful Father of Love -- Is not Ours the chastising -- Do not chastise the Dove -- Not for Ourselves, petition -- Nothing is left to pray -- When a subject is finished -- Words are handed away -- Only lest she be lonely In thy beautiful House Give her for her Transgression License to think of us --
Emily Dickinson
Oh Future! thou secreted peace Or subterranean woe -- Is there no wandering route of grace That leads away from thee -- No circuit sage of all the course Descried by cunning Men To balk thee of thy sacred Prey -- Advancing to thy Den --
Emily Dickinson
Said Death to Passion "Give of thine an Acre unto me." Said Passion, through contracting Breaths "A Thousand Times Thee Nay." Bore Death from Passion All His East He -- sovereign as the Sun Resituated in the West And the Debate was done.
Emily Dickinson
I think that the Root of the Wind is Water -- It would not sound so deep Were it a Firmamental Product -- Airs no Oceans keep -- Mediterranean intonations -- To a Current's Ear -- There is a maritime conviction In the Atmosphere --
Emily Dickinson
Pain -- has an Element of Blank -- It cannot recollect When it begun -- or if there were A time when it was not -- It has no Future -- but itself -- Its Infinite contain Its Past -- enlightened to perceive New Periods -- of Pain.
Emily Dickinson
It can't be "Summer"! That -- got through! It's early -- yet -- for "Spring"! There's that long town of White -- to cross -- Before the Blackbirds sing! It can't be "Dying"! It's too Rouge -- The Dead shall go in White -- So Sunset shuts my question down With Cuffs of Chrysolite!
Walt Whitman
TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here’s a good place at the corner—I must stand and see the show. Clear the way there, Jonathan! Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling. I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cock’d hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men’s shoulders! What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level them? If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President’s marshal; If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be; Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dress’d—see how orderly they conduct themselves. Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Retreat then! Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow. But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston? I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste! Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. This centre-piece for them: Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay, Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own. Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day; You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.