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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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172

[XXXIV. Superfluous were the sun]

Superfluous were the sun
When excellence is dead;
He were superfluous every day,
For every day is said
That syllable whose faith
Just saves it from despair,
And whose ‘I'll meet you’ hesitates
If love inquire, ‘Where?’
Upon his dateless fame
Our periods may lie,
As stars that drop anonymous
From an abundant sky.
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