Dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain (280)
by Emily Dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My Mind was going numb -
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here -
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -
303, "The Soul Selects her own Society"
The Soul selects her own Society--
Then--shuts the Door --
To her divine Majority --
Present no more--
Unmoved --she notes the Chariots--pausing
At her low Gate --
Unmoved --an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat --
I've known her--from an ample nation --
Choose One --
Then--close the Valves of her attention--
Like Stone --
J. 435
Much madness is divinest Sense--
To a discerning Eye---
Much Sense--the starkest Madness---
'Tis the Majority---
In this, as All, prevail---
Assent--and you are sane---
Demur--you're straightway dangerous---
And handled with a Chain--
c. 1862 (1890)
632
The Brain is wider than the Sky
For put them side by side
The one the other will contain
With ease and You beside
The Brain is deeper than the sea
For hold them Blue to Blue
The one the other will absorb
As Sponges Buckets do
The Brain is just the weight of God
For Heft them Pound for Pound
And they will differ if they do
As Syllable from Sound
986
A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides--
You may have met Him--did you not
His notice sudden is--
The Grass divides as with a Comb--
A spotted shaft is seen--
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on--
He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn--
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot--
I more than once at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash
Unbraiding in the Sun
When stooping to secure it
It wrinkled, and was gone--
Several of Nature's People
I know, and they know me--
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality--
But never met this Fellow
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing
And Zero at the Bone--
by Emily Dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My Mind was going numb -
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here -
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -
303, "The Soul Selects her own Society"
The Soul selects her own Society--
Then--shuts the Door --
To her divine Majority --
Present no more--
Unmoved --she notes the Chariots--pausing
At her low Gate --
Unmoved --an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat --
I've known her--from an ample nation --
Choose One --
Then--close the Valves of her attention--
Like Stone --
J. 435
Much madness is divinest Sense--
To a discerning Eye---
Much Sense--the starkest Madness---
'Tis the Majority---
In this, as All, prevail---
Assent--and you are sane---
Demur--you're straightway dangerous---
And handled with a Chain--
c. 1862 (1890)
632
The Brain is wider than the Sky
For put them side by side
The one the other will contain
With ease and You beside
The Brain is deeper than the sea
For hold them Blue to Blue
The one the other will absorb
As Sponges Buckets do
The Brain is just the weight of God
For Heft them Pound for Pound
And they will differ if they do
As Syllable from Sound
986
A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides--
You may have met Him--did you not
His notice sudden is--
The Grass divides as with a Comb--
A spotted shaft is seen--
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on--
He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn--
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot--
I more than once at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash
Unbraiding in the Sun
When stooping to secure it
It wrinkled, and was gone--
Several of Nature's People
I know, and they know me--
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality--
But never met this Fellow
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing
And Zero at the Bone--