Emily Dickinson

I cannot buy it – ̓tis not sold –
There is no other in the World –
Mine was the only one
I was so happy I forgot
To shut the Door And it went out
And I am all alone –
If I could find it Anywhere
I would not mind the journey there
Though it took all my store

Touch lightly Nature’s sweet Guitar
Unless thou know ̓st the Tune
Or every Bird will point at thee
Because a Bard too soon –

It was a quiet seeming Day –
There was no harm in earth or sky –
Till with the closing sun
There strayed an accidental Red
A Strolling Hue, one would have said
To westward of the Town –

The Road to Paradise is plain,
And hold scarce one.
Not that it is not firm
But we presume
A Dimpled Road
Is more preferred.
The Belles of Paradise are few –
Not me – nor you –
But unsuspected things –
Mines have no Wings.

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields –
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum,
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

MY wheel is in the dark!
I cannot see a spoke
Yet know its dripping feet
Go round and round.
My foot is on the Tide!
An unfrequented road –
Yet have all roads
A clearing at the end –

Some have resigned the Loom –
Some in the busy tomb
Find quaint employ –

Some with new – stately feet –
Pass royal through the gate –
Flinging the problem back
At you and I!

If I should die,
And you should live –
And time should gurgle on –
And morn should beam –
And noon should burn –
As it has usual done –
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go –
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
̓Tis sweet to know that...