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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Born in 1830 in Massachusetts, Emily Dickinson lived in almost total physical isolation from the outside world and is now linked with Walt Whitman as founders of a unique American poetic voice...
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FURTHER READING
Carpe Diem
A Shropshire Lad, II
by A. E. Housman
As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII [All the world's a stage]
by William Shakespeare
Three Airs for the Beggar’s Opera, Air XXII
by John Gay
Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene III [O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?]
by William Shakespeare
A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A Song On the End of the World
by Czeslaw Milosz
Another Song [Are they shadows that we see?]
by Samuel Daniel
Anything Can Happen
by Seamus Heaney
Archaic Torso of Apollo
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Barter
by Sara Teasdale
Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
Carpe Diem: Poems for Making the Most of Time
Daphnis and Chloe
by Haniel Long
Days
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Dreams
by Langston Hughes
Exact
by Rae Armantrout
First Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I Have News for You
by Tony Hoagland
I saw a man pursuing the horizon
by Stephen Crane
If—
by Rudyard Kipling
Live Blindly and Upon the Hour
by Trumbull Stickney
My life closed twice before its close (96)
by Emily Dickinson
My life has been the poem I would have writ
by Henry David Thoreau
O Me! O Life!
by Walt Whitman
O, Gather Me the Rose
by William Ernest Henley
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
by Noah Eli Gordon
Song of Myself, III
by Walt Whitman, read by Lucille Clifton
Song to Celia
by Ben Jonson
Thanatopsis
by William Cullen Bryant
the gate
by Tadeusz Różewicz
The Layers
by Stanley Kunitz
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
To Rosa
by Abraham Lincoln
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
by Robert Herrick
Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam
by Ernest Dowson
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths
by Philip James Bailey
When I consider every thing that grows (Sonnet 15)
by William Shakespeare
You Can't Have It All
by Barbara Ras
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I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)

 
by Emily Dickinson

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— 
Life's little duties do—precisely— 
As the very least  
Were infinite—to me— 
    
I put new Blossoms in the Glass— 
And throw the old—away— 
I push a petal from my gown  
That anchored there—I weigh  
The time 'twill be till six o'clock  
I have so much to do— 
And yet—Existence—some way back— 
Stopped—struck—my ticking—through— 
We cannot put Ourself away  
As a completed Man  
Or Woman—When the Errand's done  
We came to Flesh—upon— 
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— 
Of Action—sicker far— 
To simulate—is stinging work— 
To cover what we are  
From Science—and from Surgery— 
Too Telescopic Eyes  
To bear on us unshaded— 
For their—sake—not for Ours— 
Twould start them— 
We—could tremble— 
But since we got a Bomb— 
And held it in our Bosom— 
Nay—Hold it—it is calm— 
    
Therefore—we do life's labor— 
Though life's Reward—be done— 
With scrupulous exactness— 
To hold our Senses—on—



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