Sunday, December 10, 2006
(more!) from Emily Dickinson * :
55 (243)
I've known a Heaven, like a Tent -- To wrap its shining Yards -- Pluck up its stakes, and disappear -- Without the sound of Boards Or Rip of Nail -- Or Carpenter -- But just the smiles of Stare -- That signalize a Show's Retreat -- In North America --
No Trace -- no Figment of the Thing That dazzled, Yesterday, No Ring -- no Marvel -- Men, and Feats -- Dissolved as utterly -- As Bird's far Navigation Discloses just a Hue -- A plash of Oars, a Gaiety -- Then swallowed up, of View.
75 (276)
Many a phrase has the English language -- I have heard but one -- Low as the laughter of the Cricket, Loud, as the Thunder's Tongue
Murmuring, like Old Caspian Choirs, When the Tide's a' lull -- Saying itself in new inflection -- Like a Whippoorwill --
Breaking in bright Orthography On my simple sleep -- Thundering its Prospective -- Till I stir, and weep --
Not for the Sorrow, done me -- But the push of Joy -- Say it again, Saxon! Hush -- Only to me!
* ED, Final Harvest (Little, Brown, 1961) 30, 41
|