Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 37

Their height in heaven comforts not, Their glory nought to me; 'T was best imperfect, as it was; I 'm finite, I can't see.

The house of supposition, The glimmering frontier That skirts the acres of perhaps, To me shows insecure.

The wealth I had contented me; If 't was a meaner size, Then I had counted it until It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values, However true their show; This timid life of evidence Keeps pleading, "I don't know."

XVI.

There is a shame of n.o.bleness Confronting sudden pelf, -- A finer shame of ecstasy Convicted of itself.

A best disgrace a brave man feels, Acknowledged of the brave, -- One more "Ye Blessed" to be told; But this involves the grave.

XVII.

TRIUMPH.

Triumph may be of several kinds.

There 's triumph in the room When that old imperator, Death, By faith is overcome.

There 's triumph of the finer mind When truth, affronted long, Advances calm to her supreme, Her G.o.d her only throng.

A triumph when temptation's bribe Is slowly handed back, One eye upon the heaven renounced And one upon the rack.

Severer triumph, by himself Experienced, who can pa.s.s Acquitted from that naked bar, Jehovah's countenance!

XVIII.

Pompless no life can pa.s.s away; The lowliest career To the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here.

How cordial is the mystery!

The hospitable pall A "this way" beckons s.p.a.ciously, -- A miracle for all!

XIX.

I noticed people disappeared, When but a little child, -- Supposed they visited remote, Or settled regions wild.

Now know I they both visited And settled regions wild, But did because they died, -- a fact Withheld the little child!

XX.

FOLLOWING.

I had no cause to be awake, My best was gone to sleep, And morn a new politeness took, And failed to wake them up,

But called the others clear, And pa.s.sed their curtains by.

Sweet morning, when I over-sleep, Knock, recollect, for me!

I looked at sunrise once, And then I looked at them, And wishfulness in me arose For circ.u.mstance the same.

'T was such an ample peace, It could not hold a sigh, -- 'T was Sabbath with the bells divorced, 'T was sunset all the day.

So choosing but a gown And taking but a prayer, The only raiment I should need, I struggled, and was there.

XXI.

If anybody's friend be dead, It 's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive, At such and such a time.

Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the hair, -- A prank n.o.body knew but them, Lost, in the sepulchre.

How warm they were on such a day: You almost feel the date, So short way off it seems; and now, They 're centuries from that.

How pleased they were at what you said; You try to touch the smile, And dip your fingers in the frost: When was it, can you tell,

You asked the company to tea, Acquaintance, just a few, And chatted close with this grand thing That don't remember you?

Past bows and invitations, Past interview, and vow, Past what ourselves can estimate, -- That makes the quick of woe!

XXII.

THE JOURNEY.