Headpiece Filled With Straw

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

By Emily Dickinson

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--

Link: My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -.

He fumbles at your soul

By Emily Dickinson

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on --
He stuns you by degrees --
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers -- further heard --
Then nearer -- Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten --
Your Brain -- to bubble Cool --
Deals -- One -- imperial -- Thunderbolt --
That scalps your naked Soul --

When Winds take Forests in the Paws --
The Universe -- is still --

Link: He fumbles at your spirit

Her breast is fit for pearls

By Emily Dickinson

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a `Diver' -
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home -
I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet twigs and twine
My perennial nest.

Link: Isle of Lesbos: Poetry of Emily Dickinson.

YEOW! Emily Dickinson - Google Print

I searched "Emily Dickinson" in the new beta of Google Print, and look what I got! Half my own library at home, and it weighs much less!

I know there are copyright issues around all this, and Google still could turn evil any day now, but THIS IS REALLY COOL!

Link: Emily Dickinson - Google Print.

I measure every Grief I meet

(561 in T. Johnson's system)

by Emily Dickinson

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –
In Sight of Native Air –

And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –

To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like My Own –

Further in Summer than the Birds

By Emily Dickinson

Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.

No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.

Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify

Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference
Enhances Nature now

I taste a liquor never brewed

By Emily Dickinson

I taste a liquor never brewed --
From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air -- am I --
And Debauchee of Dew --
Reeling -- thro endless summer days --
From inns of Molten Blue --

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door --
When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
And Saints -- to windows run --
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the -- Sun --

Link: I taste a liquor never brewed - A poem by Emily Dickinson - American Poems.

Wild Nights -- Wild Nights!

By Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights -- Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile -- the Winds --
To a Heart in port --
Done with the Compass --
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden --
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor -- Tonight --
In Thee!

Isn't this a terrific resource! The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson

OK, so yes, they are the bastardized versions that are in the public domain right now. Pooh. Lousy punctuation, changed pronouns, "fixed" rhymes. Somehow Thomas Johnson managed to lock the real versions of Emily Dickinson's poems away so the public can't see America's greatest poet who's only been dead more than 100 years.

Gotta love those folks at the University of Virginia American Studies program. There are all kinds of goodies available there in electronic form!

Link: Dickinson, Emily Collected Volumes I and II .

Another Hypertext from AS@UVA

About the electronic version

Collected Poetry, Volumes I and II by Emily Dickinson

By the University of Virginia American Studies Program 2002-2003.

Tagged in HTML October, 2003.

Copy-edited and overall design and construction: Adriana Puckett, October, 2003. This version available from American studies at the University of Virginia. Charlottesville, Va.

Freely available for non-commercial use provided that this header is included in its entirety with any copy distributed

About the print version:

Dickinson, Emily

Poems by Emily Dickinson / [1st and 2d series] edited by two of her friends, Mabel Loomis Todd and T.W. Higginson. Boston : Roberts Brothers, 1893, [c1890]

How I'm feeling today...

As usual, Auntie Em says it best.

Link: Emily Dickinson : A clock stopped—not the mantel’s.

A clock stopped

By Emily Dickinson (#287 in T. Johnson's system)

A Clock stopped—
Not the Mantel’s—
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing—
That just now dangled still—

An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain—
Then quivered out of Decimals—
Into Degreeless Noon—

It will not stir for Doctors—
This Pendulum of snow—
This Shopman importunes it—
While cool—concernless No—

Nods from the Gilded pointers—
Nods from the Seconds slim—
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life—
And Him—

PS Here's a cool note about this wonderfully complex poem. The palindrome word "noon" falls very nearly in the exact degreeless CENTER of the poem, the point where the clock stops.