Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 20

THE RETURN.

Though I get home how late, how late!

So I get home, 't will compensate.

Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock.

Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony!

To think just how the fire will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!

XXIII.

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west, Nor noticed night did soft descend Nor constellation burn, Intent upon the vision Of lat.i.tudes unknown.

The angels, happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to G.o.d.

There, -- sandals for the barefoot; There, -- gathered from the gales, Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering sails.

XXIV.

TOO MUCH.

I should have been too glad, I see, Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round; My little circuit would have shamed This new circ.u.mference, have blamed The homelier time behind.

I should have been too saved, I see, Too rescued; fear too dim to me That I could spell the prayer I knew so perfect yesterday, -- That scalding one, "Sabachthani,"

Recited fluent here.

Earth would have been too much, I see, And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, -- The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.

Defeat whets victory, they say; The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the sh.o.r.e beyond.

'T is beggars banquets best define; 'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, -- Faith faints to understand.

XXV.

s.h.i.+PWRECK.

It tossed and tossed, -- A little brig I knew, -- O'ertook by blast, It spun and spun, And groped delirious, for morn.

It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight.

Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.

XXVI.

Victory comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it.

How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop!

Was G.o.d so economical?

His table 's spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe.

Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle's golden breakfast Strangles them.

G.o.d keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve!

XXVII.

ENOUGH.

G.o.d gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, -- My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the feat That made the pellet mine, -- Too happy in my sparrow chance For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair.

I wonder how the rich may feel, -- An Indiaman -- an Earl?

I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.

XXVIII.

Experiment to me Is every one I meet.

If it contain a kernel?

The figure of a nut

Presents upon a tree, Equally plausibly; But meat within is requisite, To squirrels and to me.

XXIX.

MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE.

My country need not change her gown, Her triple suit as sweet As when 't was cut at Lexington, And first p.r.o.nounced "a fit."