The Soul selects her own Society (303)





Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
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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 —

c. 1862

Blood stains—it taunts as well—
Sings Our Tale—of long farewell—
Inspires art—brings Us to hell—
Blade in hand—We understand—Death's plan—

Dark scythe sweeps across head—
Takes me Under the Ground—
Words unsaid—live forever—Deafening Sound—
Sweeps across this barren town—

A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.

Emily Dickinson. 3/22/2016.

Polaroid cameras
Trees with leaves
Mason jars of water
Adventures into oblivion
CDs
Journals with no plain pages
Studios with paint on the walls
Brick buildings
Small towns full of life