“Faith” is a fine invention (Fr 202)
Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency!
“Hope” is the thing with feathers (Fr 314)
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;5
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;10
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
There’s a certain Slant of light (Fr 320)
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.15
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain (Fr 340)
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,5
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 soul10
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,15
Wrecked, solitary, here.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes (Fr 372)
This poem was first printed in 1929, in an edition not available here.
They shut me up in Prose (Fr 445)
This poem was first printed in 1935, so it is still under copyright.
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died (Fr 591)
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,5
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I10
Could make assignable,—and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then15
I could not see to see.
Much Madness is divinest Sense (Fr 620)
Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.5
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
The Brain – is wider than the Sky (Fr 598)
The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.
The brain is deeper than the sea,5
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, lift them, pound for pound,10
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant (Fr 1263)
This poem was first printed in 1945, so it is still under copyright.