Emily Dickinson's Poems
Some poems by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886).
[#1438] Behold this little Bane— The Boon of all alive— As common as it is unknown The name of it is Love— To lack of it is Woe— To own of it is Wound— Not elsewhere—if in Paradise Its Tantamount be found—
[#249] Wild Nights - Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile - the Winds - To a Heart in port - Done with the Compass - Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden - Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor - Tonight - In Thee!
[#627] The Tint I cannot take — is best — The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar — A Guinea at a sight — The fine — impalpable Array — That swaggers on the eye Like Cleopatra's Company — Repeated — in the sky — The Moments of Dominion That happen on the Soul And leave it with a Discontent Too exquisite — to tell — The eager look — on Landscapes — As if they just repressed Some Secret — that was pushing Like Chariots — in the Vest — The Pleading of the Summer — That other Prank — of Snow — That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels — know. Their Graspless manners — mock us — Until the Cheated Eye Shuts arrogantly — in the Grave — Another way — to see —
By E E Cummings
i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new