The White Heat.

Dare you see a soul at the white heat?
Then crouch within the door.
Red is the fire's common tint;
But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame's conditions,
Its quivering substance plays
Without a color but the light
Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith,
Whose anvil's even din
Stands symbol for the finer forge
That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores
With hammer and with blaze,
Until the designated light
Repudiate the forge.

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 Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets.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

Joy In Death.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Transplanted.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Dawn.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

I Reason, Earth Is Short,

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.

The Soul's Storm.

It struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through.

It burned me in the night,
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
With every morning's beam.

I thought that storm was brief, --
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Fire.

Ashes denote that fire was;
Respect the grayest pile
For the departed creature's sake
That hovered there awhile.

Fire exists the first in light,
And then consolidates, --
Only the chemist can disclose
Into what carbonates.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Like Mighty Footlights Burned The Red

Like mighty footlights burned the red
At bases of the trees, --
The far theatricals of day
Exhibiting to these.

'T was universe that did applaud
While, chiefest of the crowd,
Enabled by his royal dress,
Myself distinguished God.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

As By Fire.

        Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning
    For spiritual perfection here below,
        This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning,
    Seems my determined foe,

        So actively it makes a stern resistance,
    So cruelly sometimes it wages war
        Against a wholly spiritual existence
    Which I am striving for.

        It interrupts my soul's intense devotions;
    Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth,
        With a swift rush of violent emotions
    Which link me to the earth.

        It is as if two mortal foes contended
    Within my bosom in a deadly strife,
        One for the loftier aims for souls intended,
    One for the earthly life.

        And yet I know this very war within me,
    Whi...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Philosopher.

Enough of thought, philosopher!
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer's sun is beaming!
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musings once again?

"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity.
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven, these wild desires
Could all, or half fulfil;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!"

"So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say,
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night; and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!
Oh, for the time, when in ...

Emily Bronte

The Snow.

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, --
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, --
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, --
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson