“These scraps of paper, carrying shards of poems and prose, give us glimpses of Emily Dickinson’s creative process during the latter years of her life.”
“was never/Frigate a/like”
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.
“Pompeii
All it’s occupations
(the) crystallized – Everybody
gone away”
“Which – has the
wisest men
undone –
Doubt has
the
wisest”
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.
To die–takes just a little while–
They say it doesn’t hurt–
It’s only fainter–by degrees–
And then–it’s out of sight–A darker Ribbon–for a Day–
A Crape upon the Hat–
And then the pretty sunshine comes–
And helps us to forget–The absent–mystic–creature–
That but for love of us–
Had gone to sleep–that soundest time–
Without the weariness–
This Is Not a Place 