Tuesday, March 15, 2011

of home, or God

I've been pretty obsessed over these two Emily Dickinson poems for awhile. They're both pretty similar. I know you get tired of me posting from her, but she's my favorite. And these poems are...well. They speak.

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because—because if he should die
While I was gone, and I—too late—
Should reach the heart that wanted me;

If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me—they noticed me;

If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I'd come—so sure I'd come,

It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name,—

My Heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning's sun,

Where midnight frosts had lain!

To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could entrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settle broad on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was His furthest mind, of home,or God,
Or what the distant say

At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?

Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that he was, and love too blest to be,
Meet -- and the junction be eternity?