memory-dickinson
emily dickinson, remixed
Planted by: kara
They tell it to the Day And tell each other about each other how we sang To keep the dark away.
I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.
God made no act without a Wing Or service of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate Of minted Holiness.
A sepal, petal, and a Flower— A manse of mechlin and of Floss— The Bee is not Is the unknown peninsula.
Nature — the other day!
The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every Bird will point at thee Because a Bard too soon— The Hills just tell the Orchards — And they — the Just — Our Thought.
Morning that comes but once, Considers coming twice— Two Dawns upon a single time Like signal esoteric sips Of the communion Wine Death is a bee.
When every way we fly We are not so fair — Midnight — I chose — Day — But how can that stupendous come Which never went away?
You — are not so fair — Midnight — I was strong — then — So I the Ships may see That touch — how indiscreet an one Was recently among us — A word is dead When it has rode away.
How many Flowers fail in Wood – Or has an Easier size.
Oh, some wise man from the Sea— And yet, with Amber Hands— She leads Him—docile as a Girl.
We dream — it is said, Some say.
A something in a House – The Morning — Happy thing – Supposed that He had come – And still – my Heart – my Heart thy Hoary work And take a little Girl — He turned away!
To hear an Oriole sing May be a Chamber — to be finite ceased Before Identity was leased.
It sweeps around me like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a sea.
I'll tell you — Nobody — Too?
It was — before — Earth is a different way – A privilege — I hoped for you before — Earth is a mighty room; Within its precincts hopes have played,— Now shadows in the dark.
We dream — it is said, Some say.
Each that we shall see Surpasses it, we know, because It is enough, the freight should be old fashioned I'll put a trinket on.
Sweet Pirate of the heart, Not Pirate of the cloud Or deeper color in the Haze— Permit a child to join.
We dream — it is said, Some say.
How fleet — how indiscreet an one Was recently among us — were we awake — You cannot make Remembrance grow When it is Morn— My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again.
The Infinite a sudden price.
I know it's true— The Sun went up—no Man looked on— The Sun went up—no Man looked on— The Sun — just touched the Morning – The inundation of the Mind — With me?
You cannot put a Fire out — A word is dead When it has a song— It has a wing.
I can't tell you — Nobody — Too?
Estranged from Beauty—none can be— For Beauty is Infinity— And power to be — But — please take a little thing to weep – So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity.
The Bustle in a House – The Brain – is wider than the sky – Pain has an Easier size.
The most pathetic thing I do Is play I hear from you or I, They may take the knife!
Please to tell a little Girl — He turned away!
Then I will forget him!
Among the other day!
Were I with thee Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Futile — the other day!
I cannot meet the Spring Is but a month from here — Put up my Heart – my Eye outweighs – East India – for you!
How many times thought Peace had come – And grateful that a Shall.
Sweet hours have perished here; This is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust.
You — are not so fair — Midnight — I lost a World — the Just — Our Thought.
The most pathetic thing I do Is play I hear from you or I, They may take the trifle Termed mortality!
The second half of joy Is shorter than any one— Life is shorter than the sky – Pain has an Easier size.
I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me — Saints, with ravished slate and pencil Solve our April Day!
A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring In contrast with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the things that sing To die — without the Life This is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.
Sweet hours have perished here; This is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence — is denied them.
The Notice that is Death — 1/2 A Light exists in Spring In contrast with the Soul Scarcer once with the sun.
The most pathetic thing I do Is play I hear from you or I, They may take the knife!
He was weak, and He was strong then — So He let me lead him in — How always wrong is Love — The inundation of the Sea, What wrecketh thee?
The Hills just tell the Orchards — And they — the Winds — To a Heart in port — A Thunder storm combines the charms Of Winter and of Hell.
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset How the old Mountains drip with Sunset How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder By the Imagination!
Nature is fond, I sometimes think, Of Trinkets, as a Cardinal Flower Fabulous as a Hundred Years, When it is said, Some say.
The Face we choose to miss— Be it but for a Dome— There came a Day As absent as a Hundred Years, When it has lost the face That made Existence—Home!
I many times thought Peace had come – And still – my Heart Almost believes it too Longing is like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.
This was a vast morsel.
The first Day’s Night had come to dwell – And yet abide the World!
To hear an Oriole sing May be seen the Dews among, Stooping—plucking—smiling—flying— Do the Buds to them belong?
There is no Silence in the Spring Is but a month from here — Put up my Heart – my Eye outweighs – East India – for you!
We journey to the Hills — The joyful little Deity We are molested equally By immortality.
You cannot put a trinket on.
Sweet Pirate of the Haze — Prayer is the Period Express from God.
Were I with thee Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
It was — before — March is the Period Express from God.
How the Hemlocks burn – How many Flowers fail in Wood – Or has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it is said, Some say.
You cannot make Remembrance grow When it is said, Some say.
Sweet Pirate of the mind — Thy windy will to bear!
The Bustle in a Voice— But Silence is all we need of hell.
The Face we choose to miss— Be it but for a Day at Summer's full, Entirely for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality.
Pain has but one Acquaintance And that is Death — 1/2 Spring is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence — is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust.
I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me — Saints, with ravished slate and pencil Solve our April Day!
Death is a different way – A Kind behind the Door – The Brain – is wider than the first.
Presentiment—is that long Shadow—on the Lawn— Indicative that Suns go down— The Notice that is called the Spring Enlarges every soul — I'm Nobody!
The second half of joy Is shorter than the sky – Pain has an Easier size.
The Life that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the Chestnut Tree, I met in my walk.
Please to tell a little thing to sigh – And Life would all be Spring!
Silence is all there is, Is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
The healed Heart shows its shallow scar With confidential moan — It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — I'm Nobody!
And thus, without a Fan — Upon the slowest Night — Peace is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust.
We learn in the early morning May be a Chamber — to be finite ceased Before Identity was leased.
Sweet hours have perished here; This is the Period Express from God.
Summer is shorter than any one— Life is shorter than any one— Life is shorter than the sky – Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it is Morn— My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again.
Such is the Force of Happiness — The Hills just tell the Orchards — And they — the Gentlest Mother...
Presentiment—is that long Shadow—on the Lawn— Indicative that Suns go down— The Notice that is called the Spring Enlarges every soul — I'm Nobody!
Parting is all there is, Is all we know of heaven, And all we dread.
The Possible's slow fuse is lit By the Wizard Sun – The Possible's slow fuse is lit By the Imagination.
Portraits are to daily faces As an Astral Hall — Father, I observed to Heaven, You are punctual.
Summer is shorter than Summer— Seventy Years is spent as quick As an Astral Hall — Father, I observed to Heaven, You are punctual.
Parting is all we know of Love; It is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Sky.
The Moon upon her fluent Route Defiant of a Keel Our Summer made her light escape Into the Beautiful.
The gleam of an heroic act, Such strange illumination – The Brain – is of Dew – And Life would all be Spring!
Then I will forget him!
It has a song— It has a song— It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
I can't tell you how the Sun rose — A darting fear — a pomp — a pomp — a tear — A Perished Sun Endear in the trees— And I'm a Rose!
Among the other day!
Only God—detect the Sorrow— Only God— The Jehovahs—are no Babblers— Unto God— God the Spirit's Honor— Just as sure— My River runs to thee— Blue Sea!
Death is a lonesome Glee — Yet sanctifies the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing So terrible — had been endured – I told my Soul shall rise Chanting to Paradise— Still thine.
Sunset that screens, reveals — Enhancing what we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
Nature — the other day!
The first Day’s Night had come to dwell – And still – my Eye outweighs – East India – for you!