Category Archives: Common Meter

“I taste a liquor never brewed” (214) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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I taste a liquor never brewed --
  From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
 Not all the Frankfort Berries
   Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of air -- I am --
  And Debauchee of Dew --
 Reeling -- thro' endless summer days --
   From inns of molten blue --

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
  Out of the Foxglove's door --
 When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --
   I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
  And Saints -- to windows run --
 To see the little Tippler 
   Leaning against the -- Sun!

“All overgrown by cunning moss,” (146) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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All overgrown by cunning moss,
   All interspersed with weed,
 The little cage of "Currer Bell"
   In quiet "Haworth" laid.

This Bird -- observing others
   When frosts too sharp became
 Retire to other latitudes --
   Quietly did the same --

But differed in returning --
   Since Yorkshire hills are green --
 Yet not in all the nests I meet --
   Can Nightengale be seen --

“The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants” (1350) by Emily Dickinson

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The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants --
   At Evening, it is not
 At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
   It stop opon a Spot

As if it tarried always
   And yet it's whole Career
 Is shorter than a Snake's Delay --
   And fleeter than a Tare --

'Tis Vegetation's Juggler --
   The Germ of Alibi --
 Doth like a Bubble antedate
   And like a Bubble, hie --

I feel as if the Grass was pleased
   To have it intermit --
 This surreptitious Scion 
   Of Summer's circumspect.

Had Nature any supple Face
   Or could she one contemn --
Had Nature an Apostate --
   That Mushroom -- it is Him!

“Success is counted sweetest” (112) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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Sucess is counted sweetest
   By those who ne'er succeed.
 To comprehend a nectar
   Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
   Who took the Flag today
 Can tell the definition 
   So clear of victory

As he defeated -- dying --
    On whose forbidden ear
 The distant strains of triumph
    Burst agonized and clear!

Jungle [Common Meter]

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They say jungles are chaotic.
   I find them as silent
 As the world that is aquatic...
   Though no less violent.

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” (254) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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"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.

“Much Madness is divinest Sense” (620) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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Much Madness is divinest Sense --
   To a discerning Eye --
 Much Sense -- the starkest Madness --
   'Tis the Majority
 In this, as all, prevail --
 Assent -- and you are sane --
 Demur -- you're straightway dangerous --
   And handled with a Chain --

“Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors” by William Butler Yeats [w/ Audio]

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What they undertook to do 
   They brought to pass;
 All things hang like a drop of dew
   Upon a blade of grass.

“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (591) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
   The Stillness in the Room
 Was like the Stillness in the Air -
   Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
   And Breaths were gathering firm
 For that last Onset - when the King
   Be witnessed - in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
   What portion of me be 
 Assignable - and then it was 
   There interposed a Fly -

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
   Between the light - and me -
 And then the Windows failed - and then
   I could not see to see -

“The Hayloft” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Through all the pleasant meadow-side
   The grass grew shoulder-high,
 Till the shining scythes went far and wide
   And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
   They led in wagons home;
 And they piled them here in mountain tops
   For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
   Mount Eagle and Mount High --
 The mice that in these mountains dwell,
   No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
   O what a place for play,
 With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
   The happy hills of hay!