Poems by Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson’s poems were not published during her lifetime; they were discovered as fair copies among her belongings after her death. Fair copies are clean, final versions of her poems, meticulously transcribed by Dickinson herself. Only a handful of Dickinson’s 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime. Instead, family members and literary editors have published the poems in varying forms. Editors have made decisions about punctuation, capitalization, and word choice, which can significantly alter the reading experience and understanding of her work. As a result, the presentation of Dickinson’s poetry has evolved, showcasing the flexibility and depth of her writing through diverse editorial lenses. This text uses the 1998 R.W. Franklin edition versions.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
Emily Dickinson
Like Trains of Cars on Tracks of Plush
I hear the level Bee –
A Jar across the Flowers goes
Their Velvet Masonry
Withstands until the sweet Assault
Their Chivalry consumes –
While He, victorious tilts away
To vanquish other Blooms.
Water is taught by thirst
Emily Dickinson
Water, is taught by thirst.
Land – by the Oceans passed.
Transport – by throe –
Peace, by its battles told –
Love, by memorial mold –
Birds, by the snow.
Angels in the early morning
Emily Dickinson
Angels, in the early morning
May be seen the Dews among,
Stooping – plucking – smiling – flying –
Do the Buds to them belong?
Angels, when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping – plucking – sighing – flying –
Parched the flowers they bear along.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Emily Dickinson
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Dont tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public –like a Frog –
To tell one’s name –the livelong June-
To an admiring Bog!
She died – this was the way she died.
Emily Dickinson
She died – this was the way she died.
And when her breath was done
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun –
Her little figure at the gate
The Angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Opon the mortal side.
