Not With A Club The Heart Is Broken,

Not with a club the heart is broken,
Nor with a stone;
A whip, so small you could not see it.
I've known

To lash the magic creature
Till it fell,
Yet that whip's name too noble
Then to tell.

Magnanimous of bird
By boy descried,
To sing unto the stone
Of which it died.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, born on December 10, 1830, and died on May 15, 1886, was an American poet who is extensively known for her innovative and poignant use of language and form. Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets. Although she seldom left her home, her poetry delved deeply into themes of death, immortality, nature, and human consciousness. Dickinson's unique style continues to influence poets and readers today.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Why?

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

A Snake.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

April.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

A Country Burial.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Poor Little Heart!

Poor little heart!
Did they forget thee?
Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

Proud little heart!
Did they forsake thee?
Be debonair! Be debonair!

Frail little heart!
I would not break thee:
Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?

Gay little heart!
Like morning glory
Thou'll wilted be; thou'll wilted be!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Consecration.

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The Broken Heart.

Oh think not with love's soft token,
Or music my heart to thrill
For its strings its strings are broken,
And the chords would fain be still!

Oh think not to waken the measure
Of joy on a ruined lute
Think not to waken pleasure,
Where grief sits mourning and mute.

The pearls that gleam in the billow,
But darken the gloom of the deep
And laughter plants the pillow
With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.

The gems that gleam on the finger
Of her who is sleeping and cold,
But wring the hearts that linger.
And dream of the love they told.

My bosom is but a grave,
My breast a voiceless choir
Speak not to the echoless cave,
Touch not the broken lyre!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Heart Not So Heavy As Mine,

Heart not so heavy as mine,
Wending late home,
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune, --

A careless snatch, a ballad,
A ditty of the street;
Yet to my irritated ear
An anodyne so sweet,

It was as if a bobolink,
Sauntering this way,
Carolled and mused and carolled,
Then bubbled slow away.

It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a toilsome way
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why.

To-morrow, night will come again,
Weary, perhaps, and sore.
Ah, bugle, by my window,
I pray you stroll once more!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A Poor Torn Heart, A Tattered Heart,

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,
That sat it down to rest,
Nor noticed that the ebbing day
Flowed silver to the west,
Nor noticed night did soft descend
Nor constellation burn,
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.

The angels, happening that way,
This dusty heart espied;
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God.
There, -- sandals for the barefoot;
There, -- gathered from the gales,
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering sails.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Broken

I.

                        Broken!
    It's only a ring - a plain, old ring,
        Worn down to a thread almost -
    Fling it away - the useless thing!
        What value now can it boast? -
                Fling it away!
            Yet stay! - oh stay
                Ere you cast it away!
        There's a tale of the vanished years
            That ever will cling,
                To that broken ring,
        That hallows and endears -
                        Oh stay!
In vain! - in vain! - What matters it now
    That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old -
    Who cares for a broken ring? -
                Fling it away!


II.

                        Broken!
    It's only a vase ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)