I Think I Should Have Loved You Presently (1922)

I Think I Should Have Loved You Presently (1922)

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
Who would have loved you in a day or two.

632
Emily Dickinson(1830–86).Complete Poems.1924.

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—
The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

Sympathy

By Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing

Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting—

I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—

I know why the caged bird sings!

254
Emily Dickinson(1830–86).Complete Poems.1924.

"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.

591

Emily Dickinson(1830–86).Complete Poems.1924.

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset - when the King

Be witnessed - in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable - and then it was

There interposed a Fly -

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -

Between the light - and me -

And then the Windows failed - and then

I could not see to see -

Mother to Son

By Langston Hughes (February 1, 1902 – May 22, 1967)

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

The Housewife

By Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman (July 3, 1860 – August 17, 1935)

Here is the House to hold me — cradle of all the race;

Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear —

Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;

Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;

Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;

Duty older than Adam — Duty that saw

Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw.

Food and the serving of food — that is my daylong care;

What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear;

Soiling and cleaning of things — that is my task in the main —

Soil them and clean them and soil them — soil them and clean them again.

To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know;

To plan like a Chinese puzzle — fitting and changing so;

To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways;

For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise.

My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard,

Useful, commonplace, private — simply a small back-yard;

And I the Mother of Nations! — Blind their struggle and vain! —

I cover the earth with my children — each with a housewife's brain.

591

Emily Dickinson(1830–86).Complete Poems.1924.

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--
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess--in the Ring--
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--
We passed the Setting Sun--
Or rather--He passed us--
The Dews drew quivering and chill--
For only Gossamer, my Gown--
My Tippet--only Tulle--
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground--
The Roof was scarcely visible--
The Cornice--in the Ground--
Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity--