Emily Dickinson: Verses about Death

897

How fortunate the Grave—
All Prizes to obtain—
Successful certain, if at last,
First Suitor not in vain.

Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!

860

Absence disembodies—so does Death
Hiding individuals from the Earth
Superposition helps, as well as love—
Tenderness decreases as we prove—

816

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become—
Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.

Not any sunny tone
From any fervent zone
Find entrance there -
Better a grave of Balm
Toward human nature's home -
And Robins near -
Than a stupendous Tomb
Proclaiming to the Gloom
How dead we are -

The grave my little cottage is,
Where 'Keeping house' for thee
I make my parlor orderly
And lay the marble tea.

For two divided, briefly,
A cycle, it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.

Departed to the judgment,
A mighty afternoon;
Great clouds like ushers leaning,
Creation looking on.

The flesh surrendered, cancelled
The bodiless begun;
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse
And leave the soul alone.

705

Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—
Death—tho'soever Broad,
Is Just Death, and cannot increase—
Suspense—does not conclude—

But perishes—to live anew—
But just anew to die—
Annihilation—plated fresh
With Immortality—

The dying need but little, dear,--
A glass of water's all,
A flower's unobtrusive face
To punctuate the wall,

A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,
And certainly that one
No color in the rainbow
Perceives when you are gone.

Death leaves Us homesick, who behind,
Except that it is gone
Are ignorant of its Concern
As if it were not born.

Through all their former Places, we
Like Individuals go
Who something lost, the seeking for
Is all that's left them, now—

88

As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear—
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here—

In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize
Vast—in its fading ration
To our penurious eyes!

Praise it - 'tis dead -
It cannot glow -
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here -
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust -
Remitted - since it flitted it
In recusance august.

833

Perhaps you think me stooping
I'm not ashamed of that
Christ—stooped until He touched the Grave—
Do those at Sacrament

Commemorative Dishonor
Or love annealed of love
Until it bend as low as Death
Redignified, above?

960

As plan for Noon and plan for Night
So differ Life and Death
In positive Prospective—
The Foot upon the Earth

At Distance, and Achievement, strains,
The Foot upon the Grave
Makes effort at conclusion
Assisted faint of Love.

Said Death to Passion
'Give of thine an Acre unto me.'
Said Passion, through contracting Breaths
'A Thousand Times Thee Nay.'

Bore Death from Passion
All His East
He - sovereign as the Sun
Resituated in the West
And the Debate was done.

'Twas comfort in her Dying Room
To hear the living Clock -
A short relief to have the wind
Walk boldly up and knock -
Diversion from the Dying Theme
To hear the children play -
But wrong the more
That these could live
And this of ours must die.

990

Not all die early, dying young—
Maturity of Fate
Is consummated equally
In Ages, or a Night—

A Hoary Boy, I've known to drop
Whole statured—by the side
Of Junior of Fourscore—'twas Act
Not Period—that died.

547

I've seen a Dying Eye
Run round and round a Room—
In search of Something—as it seemed—
Then Cloudier become—
And then—obscure with Fog—
And then—be soldered down
Without disclosing what it be
'Twere blessed to have seen—

417

Is it dead—Find it—
Out of sound—Out of sight—
"Happy"? Which is wiser—
You, or the Wind?
"Conscious"? Won't you ask that—
Of the low Ground?

"Homesick"? Many met it—
Even through them—This
Cannot testify—
Themself—as dumb—

976

Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
"Dissolve" says Death—The Spirit "Sir
I have another Trust"—

Death doubts it—Argues from the Ground—
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.

901

Sweet, to have had them lost
For news that they be saved—
The nearer they departed Us
The nearer they, restored,

Shall stand to Our Right Hand—
Most precious and the Dead—
Next precious
Those that rose to go—
Then thought of Us, and stayed.

548

Death is potential to that Man
Who dies—and to his friend—
Beyond that—unconspicuous
To Anyone but God—

Of these Two—God remembers
The longest—for the friend—
Is integral—and therefore
Itself dissolved—of God—

382

For Death—or rather
For the Things 'twould buy—
This—put away
Life's Opportunity—

The Things that Death will buy
Are Room—
Escape from Circumstances—
And a Name—

With Gifts of Life
How Death's Gifts may compare—
We know not—
For the Rates—lie Here—

678

Wolfe demanded during dying
"Which obtain the Day"?
"General, the British"—"Easy"
Answered Wolfe "to die"

Montcalm, his opposing Spirit
Rendered with a smile
"Sweet" said he "my own Surrender
Liberty's beguile"

485

To make One's Toilette—after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still—

That's easier—than Braid the Hair—
And make the Bodice gay—
When eyes that fondled it are wrenched
By Decalogues—away—

749

All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—

Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—

922

Those who have been in the Grave the longest—
Those who begin Today—
Equally perish from our Practise—
Death is the other way—

Foot of the Bold did least attempt it—
It—is the White Exploit—
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate—

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.

Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.

Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill -
Wring the tree and leave it,
'Tis the vermin's will.

573

The Test of Love—is Death—
Our Lord—"so loved"—it saith—
What Largest Lover—hath
Another—doth—

If smaller Patience—be—
Through less Infinity—
If Bravo, sometimes swerve—
Through fainter Nerve—

Accept its Most—
And overlook—the Dust—
Last—Least—
The Cross'—Request—

491

While it is alive
Until Death touches it
While it and I lap one Air
Dwell in one Blood
Under one Sacrament
Show me Division can split or pare—

Love is like Life—merely longer
Love is like Death, during the Grave
Love is the Fellow of the Resurrection
Scooping up the Dust and chanting "Live"!

221

It can't be "Summer"!
That—got through!
It's early—yet—for "Spring"!
There's that long town of White—to cross—
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can't be "Dying"!
It's too Rouge—
The Dead shall go in White—
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

907

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—

Love—is that later Thing than Death—
More previous—than Life—
Confirms it at its entrance—And
Usurps it—of itself—

Tastes Death—the first—to hand the sting
The Second—to its friend—
Disarms the little interval—
Deposits Him with God—

Then hovers—an inferior Guard—
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need—once in an Eternity—
A smaller than the Large—

876

It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone
Enclosed 'twas not of Rail
A Consciousness its Acre, and
It held a Human Soul.

Entombed by whom, for what offence
If Home or Foreign born—
Had I the curiosity
'Twere not appeased of men

Till Resurrection, I must guess
Denied the small desire
A Rose upon its Ridge to sow
Or take away a Briar.

831

Dying! To be afraid of thee
One must to thine Artillery
Have left exposed a Friend—
Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
Delivered straighter to the Heart
The leaving Love behind.

Not for itself, the Dust is shy,
But, enemy, Beloved be
Thy Batteries divorce.
Fight sternly in a Dying eye
Two Armies, Love and Certainty
And Love and the Reverse.

539

The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art—To save—
Through Skill obtained in Themselves—
The Science of the Grave

No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution—in Himself—
That Man—be qualified

To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new—
Mistake Defeat for Death—Each time—
Till acclimated—to—

762

The Whole of it came not at once—
'Twas Murder by degrees—
A Thrust—and then for Life a chance—
The Bliss to cauterize—

The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease—
Then mashes it to death—

'Tis Life's award—to die—
Contenteder if once—
Than dying half—then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse—

158

Dying! Dying in the night!
Won't somebody bring the light
So I can see which way to go
Into the everlasting snow?

And "Jesus"! Where is Jesus gone?
They said that Jesus—always came—
Perhaps he doesn't know the House—
This way, Jesus, Let him pass!

Somebody run to the great gate
And see if Dollie's coming! Wait!
I hear her feet upon the stair!
Death won't hurt—now Dollie's here!

645

Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen—
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs—between—

For Stranger—Strangers do not mourn—
There be Immortal friends
Whom Death see first—'tis news of this
That paralyze Ourselves—

Who, vital only to Our Thought—
Such Presence bear away
In dying—'tis as if Our Souls
Absconded—suddenly—

468

The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die—
'Tis deemed a privilege to choose—
'Twas Major Andre's Way—

When Choice of Life—is past—
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate—

How small in those who live—

The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles—
How "they are Dying mostly—now"—
And Customs at "St. James"!