Emily Dickinson

There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt -
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait -

Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness - is Noon.

The Life we have is very great.
The Life that we shall see
Surpasses it, we know, because
It is Infinity,
But when all Space has been beheld
And all Dominion shown
The smallest Human Heart's extent
Reduces it to none.

In the name of the bee
And of the butterfly
And of the breeze, amen!

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Presentiment - is that long Shadow - on the Lawn -
Indicative that Suns go down -

The Notice to the startled Grass
That Darkness - is about to pass -

A Murmur in the Trees - to note -
Not loud enough - for Wind -
A Star - not far enough to seek -
Nor near enough - to find -

A word is dead
When it is said,
   Some say,
I say it just
Begins to live
   That day.

The Possible's slow fuse is lit
By the Imagination.

It might be easier
   To fail with land in sight,
That gain my blue peninsula
   To perish of delight.