Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 25

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one.

When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is s.h.i.+fted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, -- Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay!

II.

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.

III.

Your riches taught me poverty.

Myself a millionnaire In little wealths, -- as girls could boast, -- Till broad as Buenos Ayre,

You drifted your dominions A different Peru; And I esteemed all poverty, For life's estate with you.

Of mines I little know, myself, But just the names of gems, -- The colors of the commonest; And scarce of diadems

So much that, did I meet the queen, Her glory I should know: But this must be a different wealth, To miss it beggars so.

I 'm sure 't is India all day To those who look on you Without a stint, without a blame, -- Might I but be the Jew!

I 'm sure it is Golconda, Beyond my power to deem, -- To have a smile for mine each day, How better than a gem!

At least, it solaces to know That there exists a gold, Although I prove it just in time Its distance to behold!

It 's far, far treasure to surmise, And estimate the pearl That slipped my simple fingers through While just a girl at school!

IV.

THE CONTRACT.

I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay.

The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way.

The wealth might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this great purchaser suspect, The daily own of Love

Depreciate the vision; But, till the merchant buy, Still fable, in the isles of spice, The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 't is mutual risk, -- Some found it mutual gain; Sweet debt of Life, -- each night to owe, Insolvent, every noon.

V.

THE LETTER.

"GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him -- Tell him the page I didn't write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the p.r.o.noun out.

Tell him just how the fingers hurried, Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow; And then you wished you had eyes in your pages, So you could see what moved them so.

"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled; You could hear the bodice tug, behind you, As if it held but the might of a child; You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.

Tell him -- No, you may quibble there, For it would split his heart to know it, And then you and I were silenter.

"Tell him night finished before we finished, And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'

And you got sleepy and begged to be ended -- What could it hinder so, to say?

Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious, But if he ask where you are hid Until to-morrow, -- happy letter!

Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"

VI.

The way I read a letter 's this: 'T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next, For transport it be sure.

And then I go the furthest off To counteract a knock; Then draw my little letter forth And softly pick its lock.

Then, glancing narrow at the wall, And narrow at the floor, For firm conviction of a mouse Not exorcised before,

Peruse how infinite I am To -- no one that you know!

And sigh for lack of heaven, -- but not The heaven the creeds bestow.

VII.

Wild nights! Wild nights!

Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury!