After great pain a formal feeling comes —
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs ;
The stiff Heart questions — was it He that bore ?
And yesterday — or centuries before ?

The feet mechanical go round
A wooden way
Of ground or air or Ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived
As freezing persons recollect
The snow —
First chill, then stupor, then
The letting go.

From The Further Poems of Emily Dickinson (Little, Brown, and Company, 1929), edited by Martha Dickinson Bianchi and Alfred Leete Hampson. This poem is in the public domain.

Toward evening, the natural light becomes

intelligent and answers, without demur:

Be assured! You are not alone.…

But in fact, toward evening, I am not

convinced there is any other except myself

to whom existence necessarily pertains.

I also interrogate myself to discover

whether I myself possess any power

by which I can bring it about that I

who now am shall exist another moment.

Because I am mostly a thinking thing

and because this precise question can only

be from that thoughtful part of myself,

if such a power did reside within me

I should, I am sure, be conscious of it.…

But I am conscious of no such power.

And yet, if I myself cannot be

the cause of that assurance, surely

it is necessary to conclude that

I am not alone in the world. There is

some other who is the cause of that idea.

But if, at last, no such other can be

found toward evening, do I really have

sufficient assurance of the existence

of any other being at all? For,

after a most careful search, I have been

unable to discover the ground of that

conviction—unless it be imagined a lonely

workman on a dizzy scaffold unfolds

a sign at evening and puts his mark to it.

From Descartes’ Loneliness by Allen Grossman (New Directions, 2007). Copyright © 2007 by Allen Grossman. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher.

translated from the Yiddish by Daniel Kraft

I am that portrait on the dusty wall
of somebody unknown, thinking a silent thought.
Often I am that brittle skeleton
in the anatomy book sitting on my shelf.

I am often my own shadow, that follows me 
and paints me on the walls in strange designs.
Often I am that unseen image
looming in a wild creature’s dream.

I am often that dead figure,
that plaster sculpture in the middle of the park.
Often I am entirely the charming 
caricature of a loser, a Jew.

I see myself in all places, naked. 
I am a part of everything and everything is in me.
In ruined castles I stand maimed, stripped bare,
I lie anonymous beneath destroyed gravestones.

I see myself in all places, naked. 
I am a part of everything and everything is in me.
In being—I am there. In nothingness—not gone.
Even outside of all that is, I am never beside myself.

Used with the permission of the translator.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention 
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate 
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on April 16, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The Carriage held but just Ourselves 
And Immortality.

We slowly droveHe knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recessin the Ring
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain
We passed the Setting Sun

Or ratherHe passed us
The Dews drew quivering and chill
For only Gossamer, my Gown
My Tippetonly Tulle

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground
The Roof was scarcely visible
The Cornicein the Ground

Since then’tis Centuriesand yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity

Poetry used by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

The Soul has Bandaged moments –
When too appalled to stir –
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her –

Salute her, with long fingers –
Caress her freezing hair –
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover – hovered – o’er –
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme – so – fair ­–

The soul has moments of escape –
When bursting all the doors –
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings opon the Hours,

As do the Bee – delirious borne –
Long Dungeoned from his Rose –
Touch Liberty – then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise –

The Soul’s retaken moments –
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,

The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue –

The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

This poem is in the public domain.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
   What a beautiful Pussy you are,
            You are,
            You are!
   What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried,
   But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
            His nose,
            His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
            The moon,
            The moon,
   They danced by the light of the moon.

This poem is in the public domain.