Les plus lus ▸
Emily Dickinson
I had no time to Hate --
Because
The Grave would hinder Me --
And Life was not so
Ample I
Could finish -- Enmity --
Nor had I time to Love --
But since
Some Industry must be --
The little Toil of Love --
I thought
Be large enough for Me --
How still, how happy! Those are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the plashing of the surge -
The changing heaven the breezy weather,
More than smooth seas and cloudless skies
And solemn, soothing, softened airs
That in the forest woke no sighs
And from the green spray shook no tears.
How still, how happy! now I feel
Where silence dwells is sweeter far
Than laughing mirth's most joyous swell
However pure its raptures are.
Come, sit down on this sunny stone:
'Tis wintry light o'er flowerless moors -
But sit - for we are all alone
And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.
You cannot rob us of the rights we cherish,
Nor turn our thoughts away
From the bright picture of a "Woman's Mission"
Our hearts portray.
We claim to dwell, in quiet and seclusion,
Beneath the household roof,--
From the great world's harsh strife, and jarring voices,
To stand aloof;--
Not in a dreamy and inane abstraction
To sleep our life away,
But, gathering up the brightness of home sunshine,
To deck our way.
As humble plants by country hedgerows growing,
That treasure up the rain,
And yield in odours, ere the day's declining,
The gift again;
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest man:
A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great:
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learnèd ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace.
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From Nature's temperate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died.
and in the end
none of us achieve happiness
we just become content.
the grazing cows
even more content
summer rain
The things to do: bring an egg from her
Hens, a found apple, beet leaf, cat's-ear foliage,
Ensuring freshness even in October.
The skillet she heats, oil frisking.
Here's egg: break yolk, turn once or twice;
Insert chopped fruit and greens, with salt and pepper;
Now turn again, wait, remove from heat,
Give all to a spelt wrap. As she sits to her meal, a
Sun rises, invests her eastern window, spills in
To caress and warm six thick maple boards
Of her grandmother's table. Whatever remains to be
Done's already forgotten: the meal an emblem
Of all her morning cared to be.
Four people knew the very me,
Four is enough, so let it be;
For the rest I make no chart,
There are no highroads to my heart;
The gates are locked, they will not stir
For any ardent traveller.
I have not been misunderstood,
And on the whole, I think life good--
So waste no sympathy on me
Or any well-meant gallantry;
I have enough to do to muse
On memories I would not lose.
There's no one that I'd like to be
One half so much as I or me.
And though I sup on meager bran,
I'd change the menu, not the man.
The oyster never leaves his shell,
And does, therein, exceeding well;
He does not have to sweat and brood
To know the joys of oysterhood;
He deems the treasured pearl a fault,
And takes his world with ample salt.
A SUDDEN turn — at last was scaled
The summit of his aim,
The cheer went up, his name was hailed
With generous acclaim.
But he for whom they raised the shout
And wreathed the shining bay
Strove in his soul with new-born doubt,
And silent turned away.
Before his vision there arose,
Like spectres of the night,
The nameless company of those
Who perished in the fight ;
The host baptized in blood and tears,
Outstripped upon the way,
To whom the gray monotonous years
Bring no redeeming day;
I am content with latticed sights:
A lean grey bough, a frill
Of filmy cloud, the shadow-lights
Upon a window-sill.
I am content in wintered days
With all my eyes may meet.
April, when you dance down these ways
Hush your awakening feet.