Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
American poetess


I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue. When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove’s door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more! Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun!


Whether my bark went down at sea, Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails; By what mystic mooring She is held to-day,— This is the errand of the eye Out upon the bay.

’T was such a little, little boat

’T was such a little, little boat That toddled down the bay! ’T was such a gallant, gallant sea That beckoned it away! ’T was such a greedy, greedy wave That licked it from the coast; Nor ever guessed the stately sails My little craft was lost!


Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?

So Sailors say - on yesterday -
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up its strife
And gurgled down and down.

So angels say - on yesterday -
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat - o'er spent with gales -
Re trimmed its masts - re decked its sails -
And shot - exultant on!

He touched me

He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast; It was a boundless place to me And silenced as the awful sea Put minor streams to rest. And now I'm different from before As if I breathed superior air Or brushed a royal gown - My feet too that had wandered so, My gypsy face transfigured now To tenderer renown. Into this port if I might come, Rebecca to Jerusalem Would not so ravished turn, Nor Persian, baffled at her shrine, Lift such a cruxifixal sign To her imperial sun.

I gave myself to him

I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way The value might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this my purchaser suspect, The daily own of Love Depreciates the sight; But, 'til the merchant buy, Still fabled, in the isles of spice The subtle cargoes lie. At least, 'tis mutual risk,— Some found it mutual gain; Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe, Insolvent, every noon.

I'm wife

I ’M wife; I ’ve finished that, That other state; I ’m Czar, I ’m woman now: It ’s safer so. How odd the girl’s life looks Behind this soft eclipse! I think that earth seems so To those in heaven now. This being comfort, then That other kind was pain; But why compare? I ’m wife! stop there!

The feet of people walking home

The feet of people walking home – With gayer sandals go – The Crocus, till she rises The Vassal of the snow – The lips at Hallelujah Long years of practice bore – Till bye and bye, these Bargemen Walked singing, on the shore. Pearls are the Diver’s farthings – Extorted from the sea – Pinions – the Seraph’s wagon – Pedestrian once – as we – Night is the morning’s Canvas – Larceny - Legacy. Death, but our rapt attention To immortality. My figures fail to tell me How far the village lies Whose Peasants are the angels – Whose Cantons dot the skies – My Classics vail their faces – My faith that dark adores – Which from it’s solemn abbeys Such Resurrection pours –


Will there really be a "Morning" ?
Is there such a thing as "Day" ?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they ?

Has it feet like Water lilies ?
Has it feathers like a Bird ?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard ?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!

Emily Dickinson


Emily Dickinsons' herbarium

After her death Dickinson’s sister Lavinia discovered
hundreds of poems in a box. In all she left us over
1.700 poems. Only ten of them were published in her
Emily Dickinson now ranks with Walt Whitman as one
of the two great names in 19th century American poetry.


Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson
Your riches taught me poverty

Emily Dickinson
In het Nederlands

Mary Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep

Dead Poetesses Society


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Update 01-03-2019.

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