A Taste of Emily Dickinson
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,--some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came The second time to me, Nor definitely what it was, Have I the art to say. But somewhere in my soul, I know I've met the thing before; It just reminded me--'t was all-- And came my way no more.
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness, A fellow in the skies Of independent hues, A little weather-worn, Inspiriting habiliments Of indigo and brown. With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self!
I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.
They say that 'time assuages,'-- Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble, But not a remedy. If such it prove, it prove too There was no malady.
Poems by Emily Dickinsonhttp://www.mith2.umd.edu/WomensStudies/ReadingRoom/Poetry/Dickinson/