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Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 47

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XLVII.

What soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are!

One would as soon a.s.sault a plush Or violate a star.

Such dimity convictions, A horror so refined Of freckled human nature, Of Deity ashamed, --

It's such a common glory, A fisherman's degree!

 

Redemption, brittle lady, Be so, ashamed of thee.

XLVIII.

DESIRE.

Who never wanted, -- maddest joy Remains to him unknown: The banquet of abstemiousness Surpa.s.ses that of wine.

Within its hope, though yet ungrasped Desire's perfect goal, No nearer, lest reality Should disenthrall thy soul.

XLIX.

PHILOSOPHY.

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight.

L.

POWER.

You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer, -- Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor.

LI.

A modest lot, a fame pet.i.te, A brief campaign of sting and sweet Is plenty! Is enough!

A sailor's business is the sh.o.r.e, A soldier's -- b.a.l.l.s. Who asketh more Must seek the neighboring life!

LII.

Is bliss, then, such abyss I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe?

I'd rather suit my foot Than save my boot, For yet to buy another pair Is possible At any fair.

But bliss is sold just once; The patent lost None buy it any more.

LIII.

EXPERIENCE.

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, -- This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.

LIV.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

One day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day, Celebrated part at table, Part in memory.

Neither patriarch nor p.u.s.s.y, I dissect the play; Seems it, to my hooded thinking, Reflex holiday.

Had there been no sharp subtraction From the early sum, Not an acre or a caption Where was once a room,

Not a mention, whose small pebble Wrinkled any bay, -- Unto such, were such a.s.sembly, 'T were Thanksgiving day.

LV.

CHILDISH GRIEFS.

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Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 47 summary

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