What is – Emily Dickinson 

What is—”Paradise”—

Who live there—

Are they “Farmers”—

Do they “hoe”—

Do they know that this is “Amherst”—

And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear “new shoes”—in “Eden”—

Is it always pleasant—there—

Won’t they scold us—when we’re homesick—

Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there’s such a person

As “a Father”—in the sky—

So if I get lost—there—ever—

Or do what the Nurse calls “die”—

I shan’t walk the “Jasper”—barefoot—

Ransomed folks—won’t laugh at me—

Maybe—”Eden” a’n’t so lonesome

As New England used to be! 

What shall I do when the Summer Troubles – Emily Dickinson 

What shall I do when the Summer troubles—

What, when the Rose is ripe—

What when the Eggs fly off in Music

From the Maple Keep?
What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup

Drop a Tune on me—

When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup

What will become of me?
Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets

And the Berries stare

How can I bear their jocund Faces

Thou from Here, so far?
‘Twouldn’t afflict a Robin—

All His Goods have Wings—

I—do not fly, so wherefore

My Perennial Things? 

What shall I do – it Whimpers so – Emily Dickinson

What shall I do—it whimpers so—

This little Hound within the Heart

All day and night with bark and start—

And yet, it will not go—

Would you untie it, were you me—

Would it stop whining—if to Thee—

I sent it—even now?
It should not tease you—

By your chair—or, on the mat—

Or if it dare—to climb your dizzy knee—

Or—sometimes at your side to run—

When you were willing—

Shall it come?

Tell Carlo—

He’ll tell me! 

What Soft – Cherubic Creatures – Emily Dickinson

What Soft—Cherubic Creatures—

These Gentlewomen are—

One would as soon assault a Plush—

Or violate a Star—
Such Dimity Convictions—

A Horror so refined

Of freckled Human Nature—

Of Deity—ashamed—
It’s such a common—Glory—

A Fisherman’s—Degree—

Redemption—Brittle Lady—

Be so—ashamed of Thee— 

What would I give to see his Face – Emily Dickinson

What would I give to see his face?

I’d give—I’d give my life—of course—

But that is not enough!

Stop just a minute—let me think!

I’d give my biggest Bobolink!

That makes two—Him—and Life!

You know who “June” is—

I’d give her—

Roses a day from Zanzibar—

And Lily tubes—like Wells—

Bees—by the furlong—

Straits of Blue

Navies of Butterflies—sailed thro’—

And dappled Cowslip Dells—
Then I have “shares” in Primrose “Banks”—

Daffodil Dowries—spicy “Stocks”—

Dominions—broad as Dew—

Bags of Doublons—adventurous Bees

Brought me—from firmamental seas—

And Purple—from Peru—
Now—have I bought it—

“Shylock”? Say!

Sign me the Bond!

“I vow to pay

To Her—who pledges this—

One hour—of her Sovereign’s face”!

Ecstatic Contract!

Niggard Grace!

My Kingdom’s worth of Bliss! 

Poem – “Nature” Is What We See – Emily Dickinson


“Nature” is what we see— 

The Hill—the Afternoon— 

Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— 

Nay—Nature is Heaven— 

Nature is what we hear— 

The Bobolink—the Sea— 

Thunder—the Cricket— 

Nay—Nature is Harmony— 

Nature is what we know— 

Yet have no art to say— 

So impotent Our Wisdom is 

To her Simplicity.

Poem – “Heaven”—Is What I Cannot Reach! – Emily Dickinson  

“Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! 

The Apple on the Tree— 

Provided it do hopeless—hang— 

That—”Heaven” is—to Me! 
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud— 

The interdicted Land— 

Behind the Hill—the House behind— 

There—Paradise—is found! 
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons— 

The credulous—decoy— 

Enamored—of the Conjuror— 

That spurned us—Yesterday!

Poem – “Heaven” Has Different Signs&Mdash, To Me – Emily Dickinson 

“Heaven” has different Signs—to me— 

Sometimes, I think that Noon 

Is but a symbol of the Place— 

And when again, at Dawn, 
A mighty look runs round the World 

And settles in the Hills— 

An Awe if it should be like that 

Upon the Ignorance steals— 
The Orchard, when the Sun is on— 

The Triumph of the Birds 

When they together Victory make— 

Some Carnivals of Clouds— 
The Rapture of a finished Day— 

Returning to the West— 

All these—remind us of the place 

That Men call “paradise”— 
Itself be fairer—we suppose— 

But how Ourself, shall be 

Adorned, for a Superior Grace— 

Not yet, our eyes can see—