Showing posts from April, 2016

The Debt by Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872 - 1906

This is the debt I pay Just for one riotous day, Years of regret and grief, Sorrow without relief. Pay it I will to the end— Until the grave, my friend, Gives me a true release— Gives me the clasp of peace. Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best— God! but the interest!

The Soul selects her own Society (303) by Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more — Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing — At her low Gate — Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat — I’ve known her — from an ample nation — Choose One — Then — close the Valves of her attention — Like Stone — c. 1862

[Emmy Dickinson] by J. P. Swiatkowski, on the occasion of the new MLA handbook

Emmy Dickinson
Spryly wrote “Hope” of feathers;
Hail the Publisher!


Still sits the school-house by the road,    A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow,    And blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within, the master’s desk is seen,    Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats,    The jack-knife’s carved initial;
The charcoal frescos on its wall;    Its door’s worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school,    Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun    Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes,    And low eaves’ icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls,    And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed    When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy    Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face    Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow    To right and left, he lingered;— As restlessly her tiny hands    The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he fe…