Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Without this -- there is nought --
All other Riches be
As is the Twitter of a Bird --
Heard opposite the Sea --
I could not care -- to gain
A lesser than the Whole --
For did not this include themself --
As Seams -- include the Ball?
I wished a way might be
My Heart to subdivide --
'Twould magnify -- the Gratitude --
And not reduce -- the Gold --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms --
It had the Tassels on --
I thought how yellow it would look --
When Richard went to mill --
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red -- Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between --
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in --
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates --
To make an even Sum --
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me --
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year --
Themself, should come to me --
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Written by
William Dunbar |
I THAT in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world's vanitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
Themself from Death may not supplee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
That made the anteris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of a,
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Death lies verily;
Great ruth it were that so suld be:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he has all my brether tane,
He will naught let me live alane;
Of force I man his next prey be:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone,
After our death that live may we:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Those fair -- fictitious People --
The Women -- plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime --
The Men of Ivory --
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas --
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake --
Can Anybody tell?
We trust -- in places perfecter --
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture --
Our dizzy Estimate --
Remembering ourselves, we trust --
Yet Blesseder -- than We --
Through Knowing -- where We only hope --
Receiving -- where we -- pray --
Of Expectation -- also --
Anticipating us
With transport, that would be a pain
Except for Holiness --
Esteeming us -- as Exile --
Themself -- admitted Home --
Through easy Miracle of Death --
The Way ourself, must come --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
They shut me up in Prose --
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet --
Because they liked me "still" --
Still! Could themself have peeped --
And seen my Brain -- go round --
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason -- in the Pound --
Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity --
And laugh -- No more have I --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times --
When Dimness -- looks the Oddity --
Distinctness -- easy -- seems --
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms --
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes --
In just the Jacket that he wore --
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we -- old mornings, Children -- played --
Divided -- by a world --
The Grave yields back her Robberies --
The Years, our pilfered Things --
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings --
As we -- it were -- that perished --
Themself -- had just remained till we rejoin them --
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
The Months have ends -- the Years -- a knot --
No Power can untie
To stretch a little further
A Skein of Misery --
The Earth lays back these tired lives
In her mysterious Drawers --
Too tenderly, that any doubt
An ultimate Repose --
The manner of the Children --
Who weary of the Day --
Themself -- the noisy Plaything
They cannot put away --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
I died for Beauty -- but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room --
He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
"For Beauty", I replied --
"And I -- for Truth -- Themself are One --
We Brethren, are", He said --
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night --
We talked between the Rooms --
Until the Moss had reached our lips --
And covered up -- our names --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Themself are all I have --
Myself a freckled -- be --
I thought you'd choose a Velvet Cheek
Or one of Ivory --
Would you -- instead of Me?
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Is it dead -- Find it --
Out of sound -- Out of sight --
"Happy"? Which is wiser --
You, or the Wind?
"Conscious"? Won't you ask that --
Of the low Ground?
"Homesick"? Many met it --
Even through them -- This
Cannot testify --
Themself -- as dumb --
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