American poet (1830-1886)
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the 19th century. Although she wrote (at latest count) 1789 poems, only a few of them were published in her lifetime, all anonymously, and some perhaps without her knowledge.
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Not with a Club, the Heart is broken Nor with a Stone — A Whip so small you could not see it I've known To lash the Magic Creature Till it fell, Yet that Whip's Name Too noble then to tell. Magnanimous as Bird By Boy descried — Singing unto the Stone Of which it died — Shame need not crouch In such an Earth as Ours — Shame — stand erect — The Universe is yours.
"I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes;
I wonder if It weighs like Mine,
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the Date of Mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if They have to try,
And whether, could They choose between,
It would not be, to die.
I note that Some — gone patient long — At length, renew their smile.
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil.
I wonder if when Years have piled,
Some Thousands — on the Harm
Of early hurt — if such a lapse
Could give them any Balm;
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger Pain
By Contrast with the Love.
The Grieved are many,
I am told;
The reason deeper lies, — Death is but one
and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There's Grief of Want
and Grief of Cold, — A sort they call "Despair";
There's Banishment from native Eyes,
In sight of Native Air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the Cross,
And how they're mostly worn,
Still fascinated to presume
That Some are like My Own."