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Emily Dickinson

Poems, Series 2

I. I'm nobody! Who are you?

II. I bring an unaccustomed wine

III. The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

IV. We play at paste

V. I found the phrase to every thought

VII. The White Heat.

VIII. Triumphant.

XI. Compensation.

XII. The Martyrs.

XIII. A Prayer.

XIV. The thought beneath so slight a film

XV. The soul unto itself

XVI. Surgeons must be very careful

XVII. The Railway Train.

XVIII. The Show.

XIX. Delight becomes pictorial

XX. A thought went up my mind to-day

XXI. Is Heaven a physician?

XXII. The Return.

XXIII. A poor torn heart, a tattered heart

XXIV. Too Much.

XXV. Shipwreck.

XXVI. Victory comes late

XXVIII. Experiment to me

XXIX. My Country's Wardrobe.

XXX. Faith is a fine invention

XXXI. Except the heaven had come so near

XXXII. Portraits are to daily faces

XXXIII. The Duel.

XXXIV. A shady friend for torrid days

XXXV. The Goal.

XXXVII. Talk with prudence to a beggar

XXXVIII. The Preacher.

XXXIX. Good night! which put the candle out?

XL. When I hoped I feared

XLII. Time's Lesson.

XLIII. Remorse.

XLIV. The Shelter.

XLV. Undue significance a starving man attaches

XLVI. Heart not so heavy as mine

XLVII. I many times thought peace had come

XLVIII. Unto my books so good to turn

XLIX. This merit hath the worst

LI. I gained it so

LII. To learn the transport by the pain

LIII. Returning.

LV. I know that he exists

LVI. Melodies Unheard.

LVII. Called Back.

II. I have no life but this

III. Your riches taught me poverty

IV. The Contract.

VI. The way I read a letter's this

VII. Wild nights! Wild nights!

IX. Possession.

X. A charm invests a face

XI. The Lovers.

XII. In lands I never saw, they say

XIII. The moon is distant from the sea

XIV. He put the belt around my life

XV. The Lost Jewel.

XVI. What if I say I shall not wait?

I. Mother Nature.

II. Out of the Morning.

III. At half-past three a single bird

IV. Day's Parlor.

V. The Sun's Wooing.

VII. The Butterfly's Day.

VIII. The Bluebird.

X. The Sleeping Flowers.

XII. The Oriole's Secret.

XIII. The Oriole.

XIV. In Shadow.

XV. The Humming-Bird.

XVII. Who robbed the woods

XVIII. Two Voyagers.

XIX. By the Sea.

XX. Old-Fashioned.

XXI. A Tempest.

XXIII. In the Garden.

XXIV. The Snake.

XXV. The Mushroom.

XXVI. The Storm.

XXVII. The Spider.

XXVIII. I know a place where summer strives

XXIX. The one that could repeat the summer day

XXX. The Wlnd's Visit.

XXXI. Nature rarer uses yellow

XXXIII. Simplicity.

XXXVI. Frequently the woods are pink

XXXVII. A Thunder-Storm.

XXXVIII. With Flowers.

XL. She sweeps with many-colored brooms

XLI. Like mighty footlights burned the red

XLII. Problems.

XLIII. The Juggler of Day.

XLIV. My Cricket.

XLV. As imperceptibly as grief

XLVI. It can't be summer, -- that got through

XLVII. Summer's Obsequies.

XLVIII. Fringed Gentian.

XLIX. November.

LI. The Blue Jay.

I. Let down the bars, O Death!

II. Going to heaven!

III. At least to pray is left, is left

V. Morns like these we parted

VI. A death-blow is a life-blow to some

VII. I read my sentence steadily

VIII. I have not told my garden yet

IX. The Battle-Field.

X. The only ghost I ever saw

XI. Some, too fragile for winter winds

XII. As by the dead we love to sit

XIII. Memorials.

XIV. I went to heaven

XV. Their height in heaven comforts not

XVI. There is a shame of nobleness

XVIII. Pompless no life can pass away

XIX. I noticed people disappeared

XXI. If anybody's friend be dead

XXII. The Journey.

XXIII. A Country Burial.

XXV. Essential oils are wrung

XXVI. I lived on dread; to those who know

XXVII. If I should die

XXVIII. At Length.

XXXI. Precedence.

XXXIII. Requiem.

XXXIV. What inn is this

XXXV. It was not death, for I stood up

XXXVI. Till the End.

XXXVIII. A throe upon the features

XL. I think just how my shape will rise

XLI. The Forgotten Grave.

XLII. Lay this laurel on the one

Emily Dickinson » Poems, Series 2 » XIX. Delight becomes pictorial

Delight becomes pictorial
When viewed through pain, --
More fair, because impossible
That any gain.

The mountain at a given distance
In amber lies;
Approached, the amber flits a little, --
And that 's the skies!

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William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was born to John Shakespeare and mother Mary Arden some time in late April 1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon. There is no record Mary Arden some time in late April 1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon.

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