Fascicle by Jean Sanders

Fascicle Words by Emily Dickinson Pictures by Jean Sanders

A fascicle is a handmade bundle of poems that have been bound together to form a little book. Emily Dickinson’s fascicles were not discovered until after her death. I drew these illustrations during October, 2021.

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature’s sentinels. In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell; Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible.

An Antiquated Tree Is cherished of the Crow Because that Junior Foliage is disrespectful now To venerable Birds Whose Corporation Coat Would decorate Oblivion’s Remotest Consulate.

The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees And started all abroad – The Dust did scoop itself like hands And throw away the Road –

Nature –– sometimes seas a Sapling–– Sometimes –– scalps a Tree –– Her Green People recollect it When they do not die –– Fainter Leaves –– to Further Seasons –– Dumbly testify –– We –– who have Souls –– Die oftener –– Not so vitally ––

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I’ll put a trinket on.

Till ranks of seed their witness bear, And softly through altered air Hurries a timid leaf!

It’s all I have to bring today – This, and my heart beside – This, and my heart, and all the fields – And all the meadows wide –

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play –– In accidental power –– The blonde Assassin passes on –– The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.

The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

A drop fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.

I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, Feel for me Almost a loneliness.

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, And they life be as sweet, And its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as they own Pumpkin pie!

The soul should always stand ajar, Ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

The Wild Rose – redden in the Bog – The Aster – on the Hill Her everlasting fashion – set – And Covenant Gentians – frill –

But a Book is only the Heart’s Portrait – Every Page a Pulse.

One need not be a Chamber – To be haunted…

Water is taught by Thirst; Land by oceans passed…

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.

You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself.

He glanced with rapid eyes, That hurried all abroad – They looked like frightened Beads, I though, He stirred his Velvet Head.

The Things that never can come back, are several – Childhood – some forms of Hope… Written on the back of a recipe for Mrs. Carmichael’s coconut cake.

The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, – My poignant luxury…

I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors –

I don’t profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink.

Bring me the sunset in a cup –

I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –