Poems by Emily Dickinson

• It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation
• It knew no Medicine
• It makes no difference abroad
• It might be lonelier
• It rises—passes—on our South
• It sifts from Leaden Sieves
• It sounded as if the Streets were running
• It stole along so stealthy
• It struck me—every Day
• It tossed—and tossed
• It troubled me as once I was
• It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone
• It was a quiet seeming Day—
• It was a quiet way—
• It was given to me by the Gods
• It was not Death, for I stood up
• It was not Saint—it was too large—
• It was too late for Man
• It will be Summer—eventually
• It would have starved a Gnat
• It would never be Common—more—I said
• It would not know if it were spurned
• It’s all I have to bring today
• It’s coming—the postponeless Creature
• It’s easy to invent a Life

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