Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 58

XXVII.

INVISIBLE.

From us she wandered now a year, Her tarrying unknown; If wilderness prevent her feet, Or that ethereal zone

No eye hath seen and lived, We ignorant must be.

We only know what time of year We took the mystery.

XXVIII.

I wish I knew that woman's name, So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears, For fear I hear her say

She's 'sorry I am dead,' again, Just when the grave and I Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, -- Our only lullaby.

XXIX.

TRYING TO FORGET.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to be Upon a new peninsula, -- The grave preceded me,

Obtained my lodgings ere myself, And when I sought my bed, The grave it was, reposed upon The pillow for my head.

I waked, to find it first awake, I rose, -- it followed me; I tried to drop it in the crowd, To lose it in the sea,

In cups of artificial drowse To sleep its shape away, -- The grave was finished, but the spade Remained in memory.

x.x.x.

I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated, A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again.

Then s.p.a.ce began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell, And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race, Wrecked, solitary, here.

x.x.xI.

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine.

I meant to tell her how I longed For just this single time; But Death had told her so the first, And she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode; To rest, -- to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and me.

x.x.xII.

WAITING.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I,

Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

x.x.xIII.

A sickness of this world it most occasions When best men die; A wishfulness their far condition To occupy.

A chief indifference, as foreign A world must be Themselves forsake contented, For Deity.

x.x.xIV.

Superfluous were the sun When excellence is dead; He were superfluous every day, For every day is said

That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair, And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates If love inquire, 'Where?'

Upon his dateless fame Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous From an abundant sky.