#657
—Emily Dickinson
I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—
Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—
Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—
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As imperceptibly as Grief
The summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dust grew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest who would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.
—Emily Dickinson
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My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
—Emily Dickinson
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Emily Dickinson would have been 176 years old today.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)