Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 13

XVII.

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with G.o.d, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

XVIII.

PLAYMATES.

G.o.d permits industrious angels Afternoons to play.

I met one, -- forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightway.

G.o.d calls home the angels promptly At the setting sun; I missed mine. How dreary marbles, After playing Crown!

XIX.

To know just how he suffered would be dear; To know if any human eyes were near To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze, Until it settled firm on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content, Was dying as he thought, or different; Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or G.o.d, Or what the distant say At news that he ceased human nature On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?

Just his sigh, accented, Had been legible to me.

And was he confident until Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best, What first, What one broke off with At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?

Might he know How conscious consciousness could grow, Till love that was, and love too blest to be, Meet -- and the junction be Eternity?

XX.

The last night that she lived, It was a common night, Except the dying; this to us Made nature different.

We noticed smallest things, -- Things overlooked before, By this great light upon our minds Italicized, as 't were.

That others could exist While she must finish quite, A jealousy for her arose So nearly infinite.

We waited while she pa.s.sed; It was a narrow time, Too jostled were our souls to speak, At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot; Then lightly as a reed Bent to the water, shivered scarce, Consented, and was dead.

And we, we placed the hair, And drew the head erect; And then an awful leisure was, Our faith to regulate.

XXI.

THE FIRST LESSON.

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf, Clasped yet to him and me.

And yet, my primer suits me so I would not choose a book to know Than that, be sweeter wise; Might some one else so learned be, And leave me just my A B C, Himself could have the skies.

XXII.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, --

The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

XXIII.

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt; But what of that?

I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that?

I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?

XXIV.