Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 24
Chapter 101 of 146 · 1 min read
GOING.
On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair,
So quiet, oh, how quiet! That nobody might know But that the little figure Rocked softer, to and fro?
On such a dawn, or such a dawn, Would anybody sigh That such a little figure Too sound asleep did lie
For chanticleer to wake it, — Or stirring house below, Or giddy bird in orchard, Or early task to do?
There was a little figure plump For every little knoll, Busy needles, and spools of thread, And trudging feet from school.
Playmates, and holidays, and nuts, And visions vast and small. Strange that the feet so precious charged Should reach so small a goal!
XXV.
Essential oils are wrung: The attar from the rose Is not expressed by suns alone, It is the gift of screws.
The general rose decays; But this, in lady's drawer, Makes summer when the lady lies In ceaseless rosemary.
XXVI.
I lived on dread; to those who know The stimulus there is In danger, other impetus Is numb and vital-less.
As 't were a spur upon the soul, A fear will urge it where To go without the spectre's aid Were challenging despair.
