Page:The complete poems of Emily Dickinson, (IA completepoemsofe00dick 1).pdf/348

The rose did caper on her cheek,

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These are the days that Reindeer love

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These are the days when birds come back,

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The Sea said “ Come ” to the Brook,

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The show is not the show,

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The skies can’t keep their secret!

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The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

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The soul selects her own society,

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The soul should always stand ajar,

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The Soul’s superior instants

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The Soul that has a Guest,

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The Soul unto itself

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The spider as an artist

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The springtime’s pallid landscape

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The Stars are old, that stood for me—

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The stimulus, beyond the grave

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The suburbs of a secret

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The sun just touched the morning;

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The sun kept setting, setting still;

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The sweets of Pillage can be known

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The thought beneath so slight a film

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The treason of an accent

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The way I read a letter’s this:

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The wind began to rock the grass

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The Winds drew off

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The wind tapped like a tired man,

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They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,

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They say that “ time assuages,” —

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They won’t frown always, — some sweet day

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This is my letter to the world,

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This is the land the sunset washes,

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This merit hath the worst,—

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This quiet Dust was Gentlemen and Ladies,

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This was in the white of the year,

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This world is not conclusion;

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Those final Creatures, — who they are —

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Though I get home how late, how late!

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Three weeks passed since I had seen her, —

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Through lane it lay, through bramble,

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Through the straight pass of suffering

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Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,

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’T is an honorable thought,

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’T is little I could care for pearls

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’T is so much joy! ’T is so much joy!

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’T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou

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’T is whiter than an Indian pipe,

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Title divine is mine

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To be alive is power,

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