large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_1_dickinson_64kb_31
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_1_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
VIII. TRIUMPHANT. Who never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind. EIGHT TRIUMPHANT WHO NEVER LOST ARE UNPREPARED A CORONET TO FIND WHO NEVER THIRSTED FLAGONS AND COOLING TAMARIND
es me, -- as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark; -- How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin? VI. HOPE. Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. VII. 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.  EVER HAD BUT ONE AND THAT DEFIES ME AS A HAND DID TRY TO CHALK THE SUN TO RACES NURTURED IN THE DARK HOW WOULD YOUR OWN BEGIN CAN BLAZE BE DONE IN COCOANIEL OR NOON IN MAZARIN SIX HOPE HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS THAT PERCHES IN THE SOUL AND SINGS THE TUNE WITHOUT THE WORDS AND NEVER STOPS AT ALL AND SWEETEST IN THE GALE IS HEARD AND SORE MUST BE THE STORM THAT COULD ABASH THE LITTLE BIRD THAT KEPT MY HEART SO WARM I'VE HEARD IT IN THE CHILLEST LAND AND ON THE STRANGEST SEA YET NEVER IN EXTREMITY IT ASKED A CRUMB OF ME SEVEN 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 FLAMES CONDITIONS ITS QUIVERING SUBSTANCE PLAYS WITHOUT A COLOUR BUT THE LIGHT OF UNANOINTED BLAZE LEAST VILLAGE BOASTS ITS BLACKSMITH WHOSE ANVILS EVEN DIN STAND SYMBOL FOR THE FINER FORGE THAT SOUNDLESS TUGS WITHIN REFINING THESE IMPATIENT OARS WITH HAMMER AND WITH BLAZE UNTIL THE DESIGNATED LIGHT REPUDIATE THE FORGE
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