Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series

Behind the hill, the house behind, —
There Paradise is found!

VI.

A WORD

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

VII

To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or me
They may take the trifle
Termed mortality!

To invest existence with a stately air,
Needs but to remember
That the acorn there
Is the egg of forests
For the upper air!

VIII.

LIFE'S TRADES

It's such a little thing to weep,
So short a thing to sigh;
And yet by trades the size of these
We men and women die!

IX

Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise.
Three times, 't is said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode
Where hope and he part company, —
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.

X

How still the bells in steeples stand,
Till, swollen with the sky,
They leap upon their silver feet
In frantic melody!

XI

If the foolish call them 'flowers,'
Need the wiser tell?
If the savans 'classify' them,
It is just as well!

Those who read the Revelations
Must not criticise
Those who read the same edition
With beclouded eyes!

Could we stand with that old Moses
Canaan denied, —
Scan, like him, the stately landscape
On the other side, —

Doubtless we should deem superfluous
Many sciences
Not pursued by learnèd angels
In scholastic skies!

Low amid that glad Belles lettres
Grant that we may stand,
Stars, amid profound Galaxies,
At that grand 'Right hand'!

XII.

A SYLLABLE

Could mortal lip divine
The undeveloped freight
Of a delivered syllable,
'T would crumble with the weight.

XIII.

PARTING