On The Bleakness Of My Lot

On the bleakness of my lot
Bloom I strove to raise.
Late, my acre of a rock
Yielded grape and maize.

Soil of flint if steadfast tilled
Will reward the hand;
Seed of palm by Lybian sun
Fructified in sand.

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 Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets.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

The Hemlock.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Aftermath.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

"Our Share Of Night To Bear"

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Asleep.

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.

"I Know A Place Where Summer Strives"

I know a place where summer strives
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,
Recording briefly, "Lost."

But when the south wind stirs the pools
And struggles in the lanes,
Her heart misgives her for her vow,
And she pours soft refrains

Into the lap of adamant,
And spices, and the dew,
That stiffens quietly to quartz,
Upon her amber shoe.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Epitaph.

Step lightly on this narrow spot!
The broadest land that grows
Is not so ample as the breast
These emerald seams enclose.

Step lofty; for this name is told
As far as cannon dwell,
Or flag subsist, or fame export
Her deathless syllable.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

At Length.

Her final summer was it,
And yet we guessed it not;
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded her, we thought

A further force of life
Developed from within, --
When Death lit all the shortness up,
And made the hurry plain.

We wondered at our blindness, --
When nothing was to see
But her Carrara guide-post, --
At our stupidity,

When, duller than our dulness,
The busy darling lay,
So busy was she, finishing,
So leisurely were we!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Unto My Books So Good To Turn

Unto my books so good to turn
Far ends of tired days;
It half endears the abstinence,
And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer retarded guests
With banquetings to be,
So spices stimulate the time
Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without,
Far feet of failing men,
But holiday excludes the night,
And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;
Their countenances bland
Enamour in prospective,
And satisfy, obtained.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Blight

    Hard seeds of hate I planted
        That should by now be grown,--
    Rough stalks, and from thick stamens
        A poisonous pollen blown,
    And odors rank, unbreathable,
        From dark corollas thrown!

    At dawn from my damp garden
        I shook the chilly dew;
    The thin boughs locked behind me
        That sprang to let me through;
    The blossoms slept,--I sought a place
        Where nothing lovely grew.

    And there, when day was breaking,
        I knelt and looked around:
    The light was near, the silence
        Was palpitant with sound;
    I drew my hate from out my breast
        And thrust it in the ground.

    Oh, ye so fiercely tended,
        Ye little seeds of hate!
    I bent above ...

Edna St. Vincent Millay

"On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose,"

On this long storm the rainbow rose,
On this late morn the sun;
The clouds, like listless elephants,
Horizons straggled down.

The birds rose smiling in their nests,
The gales indeed were done;
Alas! how heedless were the eyes
On whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of death
No daybreak can bestir;
The slow archangel's syllables
Must awaken her.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson