Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 17

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise,

To such, if they should whisper Of morning and the moor, They bear no other errand, And I, no other prayer.

I. LIFE.

I.

I'm n.o.body! Who are you?

Are you n.o.body, too?

Then there 's a pair of us -- don't tell!

They 'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

II.

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.

Crackling with fever, they essay; I turn my br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes away, And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy gla.s.s; The lips I would have cooled, alas!

Are so superfluous cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould.

Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak.

And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake, --

If, haply, any say to me, "Unto the little, unto me,"

When I at last awake.

III.

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover -- Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety.

IV.

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.

The shapes, though, were similar, And our new hands Learned gem-tactics Practising sands.

V.

I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, -- as a hand Did try to chalk the sun

To races nurtured in the dark; -- How would your own begin?

Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

VI.

HOPE.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

VII.

THE WHITE HEAT.

Dare you see a soul at the white heat?

Then crouch within the door.

Red is the fire's common tint; But when the vivid ore