10 passages by Emily Dickinson, from Poems by Emily Dickinson. Emily Dickinson died in 1886, so the words are in the public domain. Every passage is copied word for word from the Project Gutenberg text.
American poet (1830–1886) from Amherst, Massachusetts. Fewer than a dozen of her nearly 1,800 poems were published in her lifetime; collections followed from 1890.
The morns are meeker than they were,The nuts are getting brown;The berry's cheek is plumper,The rose is out of town.The maple wears a gayer scarf,The field a scarlet gown.Lest I should be old-fashioned,I'll put a trinket on.
Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I 've heard it in the chillest land,And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.
Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.
There is no frigate like a bookTo take us lands away,Nor any coursers like a pageOf prancing poetry.This traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariotThat bears a human soul!
If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.
The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth, —The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity.
Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, —One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will doIf bees are few.
I never saw a moor,I never saw the sea;Yet know I how the heather looks,And what a wave must be.I never spoke with God,Nor visited in heaven;Yet certain am I of the spotAs if the chart were given.
Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes, —Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!
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