POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
This is the sovereign anguish,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!
LXXIX
I YEARS had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business,—just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?
And ask my business there.
My business,—just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.
[44]
