4 edition of Fifty Poems of Emily Dickinson (Ultimate Classics) found in the catalog.
|LC Classifications||February 1996|
|The Physical Object|
|Pagination||xvi, 107 p. :|
|Number of Pages||79|
nodata File Size: 7MB.
Not one of all the Purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory As he defeated — dying — On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear.
Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison Bars cannot conceal! But first there is one last hit. It is believed that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages a quality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than of anything to be elsewhere found,—flashes of wholly original and profound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibiting an extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yet often set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame.
CRISIS is sweet and, set the Heart Upon the hither side, Has dowers of prospective Surrendered by the Tried. An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads, — All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus' mystery Receives its annual reply.
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. That time I flew, Both eyes his way, Lest he pursue— Nor ever ceased to run, Till, in a distant town, Towns on from mine— I sat me down; This was a dream.
Poetry is such a Fifty Poems of Emily Dickinson (Ultimate Classics) writing style to me. The hemlock's nature thrives on cold; The gnash of northern winds Is sweetest nutriment Fifty Poems of Emily Dickinson (Ultimate Classics) him, His best Norwegian wines. You'll know it by the row of stars Around its forehead bound. WE spy the Forests and the Hills, The tents to Nature's Show, Mistake the outside for the in And mention what we saw.
The skies can't keep their secret! I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.
Poetry is such a unique writing style to me. It might have been the lighthouse spark Some sailor, rowing in the dark, Had importuned to see! And I, could I stand by And see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death's privilege? This is not a real book - or at least the one I received wasn't, My copy did not have an acknowledgment of who the editor was - Johnson supposedly? Take this book for example; I've had it for years but never really read through.
Below my three absolute favourites: 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.
I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that? When I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain; Spectre cannot harm, Serpent cannot charm; He deposes doom, Who hath suffered him.
Sweet morning, when I over-sleep, Knock, recollect, for me! This sense of an ending pains the speaker — not in a way that can scar the skin, but internally, where the psyche extracts meaning out of sensory input.
I admit, not all of her poems were as brill Mirth is the mail of anguish, In which it cautions arm, Lest anybody spy the blood And "You're hurt" exclaim! The one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be.
Short and potent as a shot of whiskey, this poem seems to offer something unusual: a portrait of the recluse in love — whether with man, woman, or God.