Emily Dickinson: Much Madness is Divinest Sense

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as all, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain —

Emily Dickinson: There is no Frigate like a Book

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

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Emily Dickinson: Because I Could Not Stop for Death

 

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

 

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 


And I had put away


My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

 

We passed the school, where children strove


At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

 

Or rather, he passed us;


The dews grew quivering and chill,

For only gossamer my gown,

My tippet only tulle.

 

We paused before a house that seemed


A swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

 

Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each


Feels shorter than the day


I first surmised the horses’ heads


Were toward eternity.

 

Note: A tippet is a shawl.

 

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Emily Dickenson: dying

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air —

Between the Heaves of Storm —

 

The Eyes around — had wrung them dry —

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset — when the King

Be witnessed — in the Room —

 

I willed my Keepsakes — Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable — and then it was

There interposed a Fly —

 

With Blue — uncertain — stumbling Buzz —

Between the light — and me —

And then the Windows failed — and then

I could not see to see —

 

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Emily Dickinson: Success is Counted Sweetest

Drawing of Dickinson done from a painting made when she was nine (Public Domain, via Wiki Commons)

 

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

 

Not one of all the purple host 


Who took the flag to-day

Can tell the definition, 


So clear, of victory!

 

As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear


The distant strains of triumph


Burst agonized and clear!