Emily Dickinson

THIS is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me,—

SUCCESS is counted sweetest

By those who ne‘er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain.

YOUR riches taught me poverty.

Myself a millionnaire

In little wealths,—as girls could boast,—

Till broad as Buenos Ayre,161

You drifted your dominions

A different Peru;

And I esteemed all poverty,

For life’s estate with you.

THE rose did caper on her cheek,

Her bodice rose and fell,

Her pretty speech, like drunken men,

Did stagger pitiful.

Her fingers fumbled at her work,—

Her needle would not go;

What ailed so smart a little maid

It puzzled me to know,

Till opposite I spied a cheek

That bore another rose;

Just opposite, another speech

That like the drunkard goes;

A vest that, like the bodice, danced

To the immortal tune,—

Till those two troubled little clocks

Ticked softly into one.

THE moon is distant from the sea,

And yet with amber hands

She leads him, docile as a boy,

Along appointed sands.

He never misses a degree;

Obedient to her eye,

He comes just so far toward the town,

Just so far goes away.

Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,

And mine the distant sea,—

Obedient to the least command

Thine eyes impose on me.

LOVE is anterior to life,

Posterior to death,

Initial of creation, and

The exponent of breath.

The heaven below the heaven above

Obscured with ruddier hue.

Life’s latitude leant over-full;

The judgment perished, too.

Gay little heart!

The hours slid fast, as hours will,

Clutched tight by greedy hands;