Emily Dickinson - 77 lyrics

Sunday morning Thank the dear little snow flakes, because they fall today rather than some vain weekday, when the world and the cares of the world would try so hard to keep me from my departed friend - and thank you, too, dear Susie, that you never weary of me, or never tell me so, and that when the world is cold, and the storm sighs e'er so piteously, I am sure of one sweet shelter, one covert from the storm! The bells are ringing, Susie, north, and east, and south, and your own village bell, and the people who love God, are expecting to go to meeting; dont you go Susie, not to their meeting, but come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing, and the preacher whose name is Love - shall intercede there for us! They will all go but me, to the usual meetinghouse, to hear the usual sermon; the inclemency of the storm so kindly detaining me; and as I sit here Susie, alone with the winds and you - I have the old king feeling even more than before, for I know not even the cracker man will invade this solitude, this sweet Sabbath of our's. And thank you for my dear letter, which came on Saturday night, when all the world was still; thank you for the love it bore me, and for it's golden thoughts, and feelings so like gems, that I was sure I gathered them in whole baskets of pearls! I mourn this morning, Susie, that I have no sweet sunset to gild a page for you, nor any bay so blue - not even a little chamber way up in the sky, as your's is, to give me thoughts of heaven, which I would give to you. You know how I must write you, down, down, in the terrestrial - no sunset here, no stars; not even a bit of twilight which I may poetize - and send you! Yet Susie, there will be romance in the letter's ride to you - think of the hills and the dales, and the rivers it will pa** over, and the drivers and conductors who will hurry it on to you; and wont that make a poem such as can ne'er be written? I think of you dear Susie, now, I dont know how or why, but more dearly as every day goes by, and that sweet month of promise draws nearer and nearer; and I view July so differently from what I used to - once it seemed parched, and dry - and I hardly loved it any on account of it's heat and dust; but now Susie, month of all the year the best; I skip the violets - and the dew, and the early Rose and the Robins; I will exchange them all for that angry and hot noonday, when I can count the hours and the minutes before you come - Oh Susie, I often think that I will try to tell you how very dear you are, and how I'm watching for you, but the words wont come, tho' the tears will, and I sit down disappointed - yet darling, you know it all - then why do I seek to tell you? I do not know; in thinking of those I love, my reason is all gone from me, and I do fear sometimes that I must make a hospital for the hopelessly insane, and chain me up there such times, so I wont injure you. Always when the sun shines, and always when it storms, and always always, Susie, we are remembering you, and what else besides remembering; I shall not tell you, because you know! Were it not for dear Mattie, I dont know what we would do, but she loves you so dearly, and is never tired of talking about you, and we all get together and talk it oer and oer - and it makes us more resigned, than to mourn for you alone. It was only yesterday, that I went to see dear Mattie, intending in my heart to stay a little while, only a very little one, because of a good many errands which I was going to do, and will you believe it, Susie, I was there an hour - and an hour, and half an hour besides, and would'nt have supposed it had been minutes so many - and what do you guess we talked about, all those hours long - what would you give to know - give me one little glimpse of your sweet face, dear Susie, and I will tell you all - we didn't talk of statesmen, and we didn't talk of kings - but the time was filled full, and when the latch was lifted and the oaken door was closed, why, Susie, I realized as never I did before, how much a single cottage held that was dear to me. It is sweet - and like home, at Mattie's, but it's sad too - and up comes little memory and paints - and paints - and paints - and the strangest thing of all, her canva** is never full, and I find her where I left her, every time that I come - and who is she painting - Ah, Susie, "dinna choose to tell" - but it is'nt Mr Cutler, and it is'nt Daniel Boon, and I shant tell you any more - Susie, what will you say if I tell you that Henry Root is coming to see me, some evening of this week, and I have promised to read him some parts of all your letters; now you wont care, dear Susie, for he wants so much to hear, and I shant read him anything which I know you would not be willing - just some little places, which will please him so - I have seen him several times lately, and I admire him, Susie, because he talks of you so frequently and beautifully; and I know he is so true to you, when you are far away - We talk more of you, dear Susie, than of any other thing - he tells me how wonderful you are, and I tell him how true you are, and his big eyes beam, and he seems so delighted - I know you would'nt care, Susie, if you knew how much joy it made - As I told him the other evening of all your letters to me, he looked up very longingly, and I knew what he would say, were he enough acquainted - so I answered the question his heart wanted to ask, and when some pleasant evening, before this week is gone, you remember home and Amherst, then know, Loved One - that they are remembering you, and that "two or three" are gathered in your name, loving, and speaking of you - and will you be there in the midst of them? Then I've found a beautiful, new, friend, and I've told him about dear Susie, and promised to let him know you so soon as you shall come. Dear Susie, in all your letters there are things sweet and many about which I would speak, but the time says no - yet dont think I forget them - Oh no - they are safe in the little chest which tells no secrets - nor the moth, nor the rust can reach them - but when the time we dream of - comes, then Susie, I shall bring them, and we will spend hours chatting and chatting of them - those precious thoughts of friends - how I loved them, and how I love them now - nothing but Susie herself is half so dear. Susie, I have not asked you if you were cheerful and well - and I cant think why, except that there's something perrennial in those we dearly love, immortal life and vigor; why it seems as if any sickness, or harm, would flee away, would not dare do them wrong, and Susie, while you are taken from me, I cla** you with the angels, and you know the Bible tells us - "there is no sickness there." But, dear Susie, are you well, and peaceful, for I wont make you cry by saying are you happy? Dont see the blot, Susie. It's because I broke the Sabbath! Susie, what shall I do - there is'nt room enough; not half enough, to hold what I was going to say. Wont you tell the man who makes sheets of paper, that I hav'nt the slightest respect for him! And when shall I have a letter - when it's convenient, Susie, not when tired and faint - ever! Emeline gets well so slowly; poor Henry; I guess he thinks true love's course does'nt run very smooth - Much love from Mother and Vinnie, and then there are some others who do not dare to send - Who loves you most, and loves you best, and thinks of you when others rest? T'is Emilie -