Dickinson Poems

There's a Certain slant of light

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'Tis the seal, despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.
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The soul selects her own society

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
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Some keep the Sabbath going to Church

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;   
I keep it staying at home,   
With a bobolink for a chorister,   
And an orchard for a dome.   
 
Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;           
I just wear my wings,   
And instead of tolling the bell for church,   
Our little sexton sings.   
 
God preaches,—a noted clergyman,—   
And the sermon is never long;           
So instead of getting to heaven at last,   
I ’m going all along.
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Much Madness is divinest Sense

Much madness is divinest sense   
To a discerning eye;   
Much sense the starkest madness.   
’T is the majority   
In this, as all, prevails.           
Assent, and you are sane;   
Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,   
And handled with a chain.
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I heard a fly buzz when I died

I heard a fly buzz when I died;   
  The stillness round my form   
Was like the stillness in the air   
  Between the heaves of storm.   
 
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,           
  And breaths were gathering sure   
For that last onset, when the king   
  Be witnessed in his power.   
 
I willed my keepsakes, signed away   
  What portion of me I            10
Could make assignable,—and then   
  There interposed a fly,   
 
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,   
  Between the light and me;   
And then the windows failed, and then           
  I could not see to see.
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Publication is the Auction

   Publication — is the Auction
    Of the Mind of Man —
    Poverty — be justifying
    For so foul a thing
     
   Possibly — but We — would rather
    From Our Garret go
    White — Unto the White Creator —
    Than invest — Our Snow —
     
    Thought belong to Him who gave it —
    Then — to Him Who bear
    Its Corporeal illustration — Sell
    The Royal Air —
     
    In the Parcel — Be the Merchant
    Of the Heavenly Grace —
     But reduce no Human Spirit
    To Disgrace of Price —