Work poems
/ page 352 of 355 /
I tie my Hat -- I crease my Shawl
© Emily Dickinson
I tie my Hat -- I crease my Shawl --
Life's little duties do -- precisely --
As the very least
Were infinite -- to me --
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
© Emily Dickinson
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon --
Repairing Everywhere --
Bound -- a trouble
© Emily Dickinson
Bound -- a trouble --
And lives can bear it!
Limit -- how deep a bleeding go!
So -- many -- drops -- of vital scarlet --
Deal with the soul
As with Algebra!
At leisure is the Soul
© Emily Dickinson
At leisure is the Soul
That gets a Staggering Blow --
The Width of Life -- before it spreads
Without a thing to do --
All men for Honor hardest work
© Emily Dickinson
All men for Honor hardest work
But are not known to earn --
Paid after they have ceased to work
In Infamy or Urn --
A Solemn thing within the Soul
© Emily Dickinson
A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe --
And golden hang -- while farther up --
The Maker's Ladders stop --
And in the Orchard far below --
You hear a Being -- drop --
A Dew sufficed itself --
© Emily Dickinson
A Dew sufficed itself --
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt "how vast a destiny" --
"How trivial is Life!"
The Rose did caper on her cheek
© Emily Dickinson
The Rose did caper on her cheek --
Her Bodice rose and fell --
Her pretty speech -- like drunken men --
Did stagger pitiful --
It is easy to work when the soul is at play
© Emily Dickinson
It is easy to work when the soul is at play --
But when the soul is in pain --
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult -- then --
I worked for chaff and earning Wheat
© Emily Dickinson
I worked for chaff and earning Wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had Fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?
The Work of Her that went,
© Emily Dickinson
The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done --
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.
Severer Service of myself
© Emily Dickinson
Severer Service of myself
I -- hastened to demand
To fill the awful Vacuum
Your life had left behind --
Going to Him! Happy letter!
© Emily Dickinson
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him --
Tell Him the page I didn't write --
Tell Him -- I only said the Syntax --
Bee! I'm expecting you!
© Emily Dickinson
Bee! I'm expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody you know
That you were due --
Crumbling is not an instant's Act
© Emily Dickinson
Crumbling is not an instant's Act
A fundamental pause
Dilapidation's processes
Are organized Decays.
Death sets a Thing significant
© Emily Dickinson
Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly
The house where I was born (08)
© Yves Bonnefoy
I open my eyes, yes, its the house where I was born,
Exactly as it was and nothing more.
The same small dining room whose window
Gives onto a peach tree that never grows.
The house where I was born (07)
© Yves Bonnefoy
I have crossed out
These words a hundred times, in verse, in prose,
But I cannot
Stop them from coming back.)
Wallace Stevens On His Way To Work
© David Wagoner
He would leave early and walk slowly
As if balancing books
On the way to school, already expecting
To be tardy once again and heavy
The Aged Pilot Man
© Mark Twain
On the Erie Canal, it was,
All on a summer's day,
I sailed forth with my parents
Far away to Albany.
