Fascicle Three, Sheet 1f

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Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells or bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful–as to the village–
Tranquil–as to repose–
Chastened–as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious–
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet–
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew–
Hands bustled at the moorings–
The crowd respectful grew–
Ascended from our vision
To countenances new!
A Difference–A Daisy–
Is all the rest I knew!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859

Fascicle Three, Sheet 1d

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So bashful when I spied her!
So pretty–so ashamed!
So hidden in her leaflets
Lest anybody find–

So breathless till I passed her–
So helpless when I turned
And bore her struggling, blushing,
Her simple haunts beyond!

For whom I robbed the Dingle–
For whom betrayed the Dell–
Many, will doubtless ask me–
But I shall never tell!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859

Fascicle Three, Sheet 1c

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Infrared, Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah, Georgia.

Within my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered thro’ the village–
Sauntered as soft away!
So unsuspected Violets
Within the meadows go–
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859

Fascicle Three, Sheet 1b

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Sheep grazing, Glencolmcille, Donegal, Ireland.

Some things that fly there be–
Birds–Hours–the Bumblebee–
Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be–
Grief–Hills–Eternity–
Nor this behooveth me.

There are that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the Riddle lies!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859

Fascicle Three, Sheet 1a

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Delayed till she has ceased to know–
Delayed till in its vest of snow
Her loving bosom lay–
An hour behind the fleeting breath–
Later by just an hour than Death–
Oh lagging Yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it w’d be–
Could but a crier of the joy
Have climbed the distant hill–
Had not the bliss so slow a pace
Who knows but this surrendered face
Were undefeated still?

Oh if there may departing be
Any forgot by Victory
In her imperial round–
Show them this meek appareled thing
That could not stop to be a king–
Doubtful if it be crowned!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. spring 1859