Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 23

Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us That spices fly In the receipt. It was the distance Was savory.

XLVI.

Heart not so heavy as mine, Wending late home, As it pa.s.sed my window Whistled itself a tune, --

A careless s.n.a.t.c.h, a ballad, A ditty of the street; Yet to my irritated ear An anodyne so sweet,

It was as if a bobolink, Sauntering this way, Carolled and mused and carolled, Then bubbled slow away.

It was as if a chirping brook Upon a toilsome way Set bleeding feet to minuets Without the knowing why.

To-morrow, night will come again, Weary, perhaps, and sore.

Ah, bugle, by my window, I pray you stroll once more!

XLVII.

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea,

And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fict.i.tious sh.o.r.es Before the harbor lie.

XLVIII.

Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer r.e.t.a.r.ded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.

XLIX.

This merit hath the worst, -- It cannot be again.

When Fate hath taunted last And thrown her furthest stone,

The maimed may pause and breathe, And glance securely round.

The deer invites no longer Than it eludes the hound.

L.

HUNGER.

I had been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread, 'T was so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, -- Myself felt ill and odd, As berry of a mountain bush Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry; so I found That hunger was a way Of persons outside windows, The entering takes away.

LI.

I gained it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me.

It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.

I said I gained it, -- This was all.

Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall, And I a pauper go; Unfitted by an instant's grace For the contented beggar's face I wore an hour ago.

LII.

To learn the transport by the pain, As blind men learn the sun; To die of thirst, suspecting That brooks in meadows run;

To stay the homesick, homesick feet Upon a foreign sh.o.r.e Haunted by native lands, the while, And blue, beloved air --

This is the sovereign anguish, This, the signal woe!

These are the patient laureates Whose voices, trained below,