Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the world. That never wrote to me.
The simple news that nature told,
with tender majesty.

Her message is comitted
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

1
Success is counted
By those who n’eer succed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag-to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he defeated,dying,
on whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

2
Our share of night to bear,
Our share of morning,
Our blank in bliss to fill,
Our blank is scorning.
Here is a star, and there a star,
Some lose their way.
Here a mist, and there a mist,
Afterwards-day!

Time and eternity

I like look of agony, Because I know it’s true:
men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulated a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death.
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung.

That short, potential stir That each can make once,
That bustle so illustrius
‘T is almost consequence,
Is the éclat of death.
Oh, thoug unknow, renown
That not a beggar would accept,
Had he power to spurn!

I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You’ll know it by the row of stars
Around the forhead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!

If I should n’t be alive
When the Robin come,
Give the one in red cravat
A memorial crumb.

If I could n’t thank you,
Being just asleep,
You will know
I’m trying
With my granite lip!

Sleep is supposed to be,
By souls of sanity,
The sutting of the eye.

I never lost as much as twice,
And that was in the sod;
Twice i has stood a beggar
Before the door of God!

Angels, twice descending,
Reibursed my store.
Burglar, bunker, father,
I am poor once more!

Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose beating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.

Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee;
Too tender to be told.