Emily Dickinson

The Going From A World We Know

Forbidden Fruit A Flavor Has

Noon—is The Hinge Of Day

Publication

While Asters

They Leave Us With The Infinite

Of Tolling Bell I Ask The Cause?

What Care The Dead, For Chanticleer

They Put Us Far Apart

Like Her The Saints Retire

To Know Just How He Suffered—Would Be Dear

Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not

We pray — to Heaven —

The Butterfly Obtains

Our Share Of Night To Bear

The Face I Carry With Me—last

The Butterfly In Honored Dust

Publication—is The Auction

Must Be A Woe

Whose Cheek Is This?

Only A Shrine, But Mine

Midsummer, Was It, When They Died

Of All The Souls That Stand Create

Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain

Sexton! My Master’s Sleeping Here

What I See Not, I Better See

It’s Thoughts—and Just One Heart

The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb

Those Fair—fictitious People

He Put The Belt Around My Life

He Found My Being—set It Up

To hang our head – ostensibly –

He Outstripped Time With But A Bout

Good To Hide, And Hear ‘Em Hunt!

If She Had Been The Mistletoe

There Is A Shame Of Nobleness

The First Day That I Was A Life

The Morning After Woe

If Blame Be My Side—forfeit Me

If He Were Living—dare I Ask

The Dust Behind I Strove To Join

If Pain For Peace Prepares

Witchcraft Was Hung, In History

Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room

Dying At My Music

How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights

The Lonesome For They Know Not What

I Showed Her Heights She Never Saw

He Who In Himself Believes

Not Probable—the Barest Chance

Prayer Is The Little Implement

Yesterday Is History

The Butterfly Upon The Sky

Not

The One Who Could Repeat The Summer Day

He Gave Away His Life

Patience—has A Quiet Outer

Most She Touched Me By Her Muteness

Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things

More Life—went Out—when He Went