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Pardon my vile tongue, but I’ve had a hell of a shit day. I wanted to give you something brilliant for today, but in the light of the awfulness this Tuesday brought me, it feels appropriate to share some of my favorites by Emily Dickinson (four of them). It’s one way for me to feel better; her poetry speaks to me.

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**Poetry Tuesday #7**

The Bustle in a House (#1108)

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is the solemnest of industries

Enacted opon Earth –

 

The Sweeping up the Heat

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity –

*

 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers (#314)

“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.

*

 

A not admitting of the wound (#1188)

A not admitting of the wound

Until it grew so wide

That all my Life had entered it

And there were troughs beside –

 

A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun

Until the tender Carpenter

Perpetual nail it down –

*

 

This World is not Conclusion

This World is not Conclusion.

A Species stands beyond—

Invisible, as Music—

But positive, as Sound—

It beckons, and it baffles—

Philosophy—don’t know—

And through a Riddle, at the last—

Sagacity, must go—

To guess it, puzzles scholars—

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown—

Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—

Blushes, if any see—

Plucks at a twig of Evidence—

And asks a Vane, the way—

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—

Strong Hallelujahs roll—

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul—

*

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