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Poems by Emily Dickinson

Dickinson, Emily (1830-1886)

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[section]
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I. LIFE.
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II. LOVE.
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III. NATURE.
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IV. TIME AND ETERNITY.
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[I. This world is not conclusion]
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[II. We learn in the retreating]
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[III. They say that time assuages]
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[IV. We cover thee, sweet face]
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V. ENDING.
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[VI. The stimulus, beyond the grave]
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[VII. Given in marriage unto the]
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[VIII. That such have died enables us]
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[IX. They won't frown always,—some sweet day]
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X. IMMORTALITY.
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[XI. The distance that the dead have gone]
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[XII. How dare the robins sing]
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XIII. DEATH.
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XIV. UNWARNED.
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[XV. Each that we lose takes part of us]
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[XVI. Not any higher stands the grave]
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XVII. ASLEEP.
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XVIII. THE SPIRIT.
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XIX. THE MONUMENT.
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[XX. Bless God, he went as soldiers]
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[XXI. Immortal is an ample word]
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[XXII. Where every bird is bold to go]
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[XXIII. The grave my little cottage is]
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[XXIV. This was in the white of the year]
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[XXV. Sweet hours have perished here]
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[XXVI. Me! Come! My dazzled face]
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XXVII. INVISIBLE.
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[XXVIII. Me! Come! My dazzled face]
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XXIX. TRYING TO FORGET.
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[XXX. I felt a funeral in my brain]
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[XXXI. I meant to find her when I came]
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XXXII. WAITING.
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[XXXIII. A sickness of this world it most occasions]
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[XXXIV. Superfluous were the sun]
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[XXXV. So proud she was to die]
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XXXVI. FAREWELL.
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[XXXVII. The dying need but little, dear]
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XXXVIII. DEAD.
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[XXXIX. The soul should always stand ajar]
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[XL. Three weeks passed since I had seen her]
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[XLI. I breathed enough to learn the trick]
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[XLII. I wonder if the sepulchre]
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XLIII. JOY IN DEATH.
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[XLIV. If I may have it when it's dead]
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[XLV. Before the ice is in the pools]
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XLVI. DYING.
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[XLVII. Adrift! A little boat adrift]
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[XLVIII. There's been a death in the opposite house]
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[XLIX. We never know we go,—when we are going]
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L. THE SOUL'S STORM.
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[LI. Water is taught by thirst]
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LII. THIRST.
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[LIII. A clock stopped—not the mantel's]
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LIV. CHARLOTTE BRONTË'S GRAVE.
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[LV. A toad can die of light]
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[LVI. Far from love the Heavenly Father]
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LVII. SLEEPING.
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LVIII. RETROSPECT.
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LIX. ETERNITY.

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153

[XV. Each that we lose takes part of us]

Each that we lose takes part of us;
A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
Is summoned by the tides.
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