All overgrown by cunning moss, (146)Related Poem Content Details

BY EMILY DICKINSON

All overgrown by cunning moss, 

All interspersed with weed, 

The little cage of “Currer Bell” 

In quiet “Haworth” laid. 

This Bird – observing others 

When frosts too sharp became 

Retire to other latitudes – 

Quietly did the same -

But differed in returning – 

Since Yorkshire hills are green – 

Yet not in all the nests I meet – 

Can Nightingale be seen –

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372)Related Poem Content Details

BY EMILY DICKINSON

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – 

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – 

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ 

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’? 

The Feet, mechanical, go round – 

A Wooden way 

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – 

Regardless grown, 

A Quartz contentment, like a stone – 

This is the Hour of Lead – 

Remembered, if outlived, 

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – 

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Come slowly – Eden! (205)Related Poem Content Details

BY EMILY DICKINSON

Come slowly – Eden! 

Lips unused to Thee – 

Bashful – sip thy Jessamines – 

As the fainting Bee – 

Reaching late his flower, 

Round her chamber hums – 

Counts his nectars – 

Enters – and is lost in Balms.

“Faith” is fine invention (202)Related Poem Content Details

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Faith” is a fine invention 

For Gentlemen who see! 

But Microscopes are prudent 

In an Emergency!

Work Cited

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/emily-dickinson#about