not even Solomon in all his glory • surrounded by goodness, beauty and truth
Pair of poems by Emily Dickinson.
Who has not found the heaven below
Will fail of it above.
God’s residence is next to mine,
His furniture is love.
AND
Who has not found the Heaven–below–
Will fail it above–
For Angels rent the House next ours,
Wherever we remove–
Poem by by Emily Dickinson.
THE RETURN.
Though I get home how late, how late!
So I get home, ‘t will compensate.
Better will be the ecstasy
That they have done expecting me,
When, night descending, dumb and dark,
They hear my unexpected knock.
Transporting must the moment be,
Brewed from decades of agony!To think just how the fire will burn,
Just how long-cheated eyes will turn
To wonder what myself will say,
And what itself will say to me,
Beguiles the centuries of way!
Poem by Emily Dickinson.
A BOOK
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
Poem by Emily Dickinson.
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth, — the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
Poem by Emily Dickinson.
I took my Power in my Hand—
And went against the World—
‘Twas not so much as David—had—
But I—was twice as bold—I aimed my Pebble—but Myself
Was all the one that fell—
Was it Goliath—was too large—
Or was myself—too small?
Poem by Emily Dickinson.
Essential Oils—are wrung—
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns—alone—
It is the gift of Screws—The General Rose—decay—
But this—in Lady’s Drawer
Make Summer—When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary—
Poem by Emily Dickinson
