) (*

: I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then theres a pair of usdont tell! Theyd banish us, you know. How drearyto be somebody! How publiclike a frog To tell your namethe livelong day To an admiring bog!

!

- ! .

. . .

: BECAUSE I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.

* Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830. Throughout her life, she seldom left her house

and visitors were scarce. By the 1860s, Dickinson lived in almost total physical isolation from the outside world, but actively maintained many correspondences and read widely. She spent a great deal of this time with her family. Dickinsons poetry reflects her loneliness and the speakers of her poems generally live in a state of want, but her poems are also marked by the intimate recollection of inspirational moments which are decidedly life-giving and suggest the possibility of happiness. Upon her death, Dickinsons family discovered 40 hand-bound volumes of nearly 1800 of her poems, or "fascicles" as they are sometimes called. The first volume of her work was published posthumously in 1890 and the last in 1955. She died in Amherst in 1886.

We passed the school where children played At wrestling in a ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then t is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses heads Were toward eternity.

.

.

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:

room a was REVEN I aes eht was reven I skool rehtaeh eht woh I wonk teY eb tsum evaw a tahw dnA doG htiw ekops reven I nevaeH ni detisiv roN tops eht fo I ma niatrec teY nevig erew trahc eht fi sA

.

( ) .

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: ,aes suordnow siht NO ,yltnelis gniliaS erohs eht uoht tsewonK !oh ,tolip !oH ,raor srekaerb on erehW ?reo si mrots eht erehW tsew tnelis eht nI ,tser ta slias ynaM ;tsaf srohcna riehT ,eeht tolip I rehtihT !ytinretE !oh ,dnaL !tsal ta erohsA

! ! !

--

! !

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knalb fo tnemele na sah NIAP

tcellocer tonnac tI erew ereht fi ro ,nageb ti nehW ton saw ti nehw yad A ,flesti tub erutuf on sah tI niatnoc smlaer etinifni stI eviecrep ot denethgilne ,tsap stI .niap fo sdoirep weN

.

.

) (* ) (

:

THERES a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything, T is the seal, despair, An imperial affliction Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, t is like the distance On the look of death.

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: ,raey a won derednaw ehs su MORF ;nwonknu gniyrrat reH ,teef reh tneverp ssenredliw fI enoz laerehte taht rO ,devil dna nees htah eye oN .eb tsum tnarongi eW raey fo emit tahw wonk ylno eW .yretsym eht koot eW

.

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: ;knalb fo tnemele na sah NIAP tcellocer tonnac tI

When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain

.

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As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here, In broken mathematics, We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

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We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore

.

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:

I FELT a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated, A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought

.bmun gniog saw dnim yM ,xob a tfil meht draeh I neht dnA luos ym ssorca kaerc dnA .niaga ,dael fo stoob emas esoht htiW llot ot nageb ecaps nehT ,lleb a erew snevaeh eht lla sA ,rae na tub gnieB dnA ,ecar egnarts emos ecnelis dna I dnA .ereh ,yratilos ,dekcerW

..

. ..

.

..

.

.. ..

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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesnt care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity

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