Evening Poetry, October 10

Dawn

by Emily Dickinson

When night is almost done,

And sunrise grows so near

That we can touch the spaces,

It’s time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready,

And wonder we could care

For that old faded midnight

That frightened but an hour.

You can find this in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, October 6

Autumn

by Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry’s cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I’ll put a trinket on.

You can find this poem in Favorite Poems Old and New.

Evening Poetry, August 19

Sunset

by Emily Dickinson

A sloop of amber slips away

Upon an ether sea,

And wrecks in peace a purple tar,

The son of ecstasy.

You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing as Feathers.

Evening Poetry, August 15

II. Love: VII.

by Emily Dickinson

Wild nights! Wild nights!

Were I with thee,

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile the winds

To a heart in port,–

Done with the compass,

Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!

Ah! the sea!

Might I but moor

To-night in thee!

You can find this in the collection Hope is the Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, July 25

Charlotte Brontë’s Grave

by Emily Dickinson

All overgrown by cunning moss,

All interspersed with weed,

The little cage of “Currer Bell”,

In quiet Haworth laid.

This bird, observing others,

When frosts too sharp became,

Retire to other latitudes,

Quietly did the same.

But differed in returning;

Since Yorkshire hills are green,

Yet not in all the nests I meet

Can nightingale be seen.

Gathered from many wanderings,

Gethsemane can tell

Through what transporting anguish

She reached the asphodel!

Soft fall the sounds of Eden

Upon her puzzled ear;

Oh, what an afternoon for heaven,

When Bronte entered there!

You can find this poem in Hope Is the Thing With Feathers: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.

Evening Poetry, July 19

Evening

by Emily Dickinson

The cricket sang,

And set the sun,

And workmen finished, one by one,

Their seam the day upon.

The low grass loaded with dew,

The twilight stood as strangers do

With hat in hand, polite and new,

To stay as if, or go.

A vastness, as a neighbor, came,–

A wisdom with face or name,

A peace, as hemispheres at home,–

And so the night became.

You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, June 26

VI. from Life

by Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, June 23

A Service of Song

by Emily Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches, — a noted clergyman, —
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I’m going all along!

You can find this in the collection Hope Is The Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, June 21

In A Library

by Emily Dickinson

A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.

You can find this poem and more in the collection Hope Is The Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, June 19

Mother Nature

by Emily Dickinson

Nature, the gentlest mother,

Impatient of no child,

The feeblest or the waywardest,–

Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill

By traveller is heard,

Restraining rampant squirrel

Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,

A summer afternoon,–

Her household, her assembly;

And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles

Incites the timid prayer

Of the minutest cricket,

The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep

She turns as long away

As will suffice to light her lamps;

Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection

And infinite care,

Her golden finger on her lip,

Wills silence everywhere.

You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.