Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 36

I made my soul familiar With her extremity, That at the last it should not be A novel agony,

But she and Death, acquainted, Meet tranquilly as friends, Salute and pa.s.s without a hint -- And there the matter ends.

VIII.

I have not told my garden yet, Lest that should conquer me; I have not quite the strength now To break it to the bee.

I will not name it in the street, For shops would stare, that I, So shy, so very ignorant, Should have the face to die.

The hillsides must not know it, Where I have rambled so, Nor tell the loving forests The day that I shall go,

Nor lisp it at the table, Nor heedless by the way Hint that within the riddle One will walk to-day!

IX.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless gra.s.s, -- No eye could find the place; But G.o.d on his repealless list Can summon every face.

X.

The only ghost I ever saw Was dressed in mechlin, -- so; He wore no sandal on his foot, And stepped like flakes of snow.

His gait was soundless, like the bird, But rapid, like the roe; His fashions quaint, mosaic, Or, haply, mistletoe.

His conversation seldom, His laughter like the breeze That dies away in dimples Among the pensive trees.

Our interview was transient,-- Of me, himself was shy; And G.o.d forbid I look behind Since that appalling day!

XI.

Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, -- Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest The cautious grave exposes, Building where schoolboy dare not look And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children Early aged, and often cold, -- Sparrows unnoticed by the Father; Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

XII.

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here, --

In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

XIII.

MEMORIALS.

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did,"

Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy, The st.i.tches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, -- At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.

XIV.

I went to heaven, -- 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down.

Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew.

People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names.

Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.

XV.