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Emily Dickinson
I learned -- at least -- what Home could be --
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant --
How awkward at the Hymn
Round our new Fireside -- but for this --
This pattern -- of the Way --
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea --
What Mornings in our Garden -- guessed --
What Bees -- for us -- to hum --
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme --
And Task for Both --
When Play be done --
Your Problem -- of the Brain --
And mine -- some foolisher effect --
For an instant, flat space lied behind your eyes,
the flame glared in its own face,
pure illumination.
Now youre gone.
What have I left to pledge my love to?
Blank space streaked with silver.
Soft sand lines washed out at the sea,
I fall lower.
A glass ball on a fine string of wire
would scatter to the elements from which it started.
Gyres and circling cones
call me to abandon myself of the earth.
Everything grinding to its halt,
your image comes in slow frames.
My heart would flow away and melt in the sun.
The flower in your hair is tied to my heart,
His bridle hung around the post.
The sun and the leaves made spots come down;
I looked close at him through the fence;
The post was drab and he was brown.
His nose was long and hard and still,
And on his lip were specks like chalk.
But once he opened up his eyes,
And he began to talk.
He didn't talk out with his mouth;
He didn't talk with words or noise.
The talk was there along his nose;
It seemed and then it was.
He said the day was hot and slow,
And he said he didn't like the flies;
They made him have to shake his skin,
And they got drowned in his eyes.
who was I being too free
in the city of desire
before having anything in my head
when my belly was it
like the raw ground in fields
wanton with sun and sleep
I chose for myself
the falseness of a void
but the sun is good
and nature is no creed
and grief runs
through many
dinner in the outback
the land bit off some sun
behind the hill
business comes expressed
as opportunity
so that the sum is
no more than the sun dressed
in field dust
laid by a little rain
the sun behind the timber
where I have hopes
of profit
so old to get so lit
liver like a lie
on behalf of the sun
common people have
their own lord the sun
high but quiet as a well
I would write a letter
to a better lower one
and venture to hire her
from month to month
after great pain
eating a bit of bread in the sun
behind me the savory discourse
of people at the madhouse
and we in other news
have voted to suffer
they who believe
in the sun too long
are ash