A Collection
Poems to keep you company.
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.
Ocean Vuong
Ocean, don't be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. Don't worry. Your father is only your father until one of you forgets.
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
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
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" -- The hue -- of it -- is Blood -- An Artery -- upon the Hill -- A Vein -- along the Road -- Great Globules -- in the Alleys -- And Oh, the Shower of Stain -- When Winds -- upset the Basin -- And spill the Scarlet Rain -- It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below -- It gathers ruddy Pools -- Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away -- Upon Vermilion Wheels --
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
We thirst at first -- 'tis Nature's Act -- And later -- when we die -- A little Water supplicate -- Of fingers going by -- It intimates the finer want -- Whose adequate supply Is that Great Water in the West -- Termed Immortality --
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
So much of Heaven has gone from Earth That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole Must prove there is a Sky Location doubtless he would plead But what excuse have I? Too much of Proof affronts Belief The Turtle will not try Unless you leave him -- then return And he has hauled away.
Emily Dickinson
A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be -- Sunrise -- Hast thou a Flag for me? At Midnight, I am but a Maid, How short it takes to make a Bride -- Then -- Midnight, I have passed from thee Unto the East, and Victory -- Midnight -- Good Night! I hear them call, The Angels bustle in the Hall -- Softly my Future climbs the Stair, I fumble at my Childhood's prayer So soon to be a Child no more -- Eternity, I'm coming -- Sire, Savior -- I've seen the face -- before!
Emily Dickinson
The stem of a departed Flower Has still a silent rank. The Bearer from an Emerald Court Of a Despatch of Pink.
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
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
WHISPERS of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear; Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals; Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low; Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing; (Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?) I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses; Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing; With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star, Appearing and disappearing. (Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth: On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable, Some Soul is passing over.)