She died at play,

She died at play,

Gambolled away

Her lease of spotted hours,

Then sank as gaily as a Turk

Upon a Couch of flowers.

Her ghost strolled softly o'er the hill

Yesterday, and Today,

Her vestments as the silver fleece —

Her countenance as spray.

Emily Dickinson

Emily describes dandelion’s flower head dried up and spraying seeds,

She died in high spirit

And skipped away

Her lease time left

Then as gaily as a Turk

Upon a couch of flowers

Her ghost strolled softly over the hill

Yesterday and today

Her robe is as silver fleece

Her face is as fog.

As children bid the guest good-night

As children bid the guest good-night,
And then reluctant turn,
My flowers raise their pretty lips,
Then put their nightgowns on.

As children leap when they wake,
Merry that it is morn,
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.

Emily Dickinson

Answer is: moonflower

As children tell the guest good-night.
And then return reluctantly,
My flowers open their pretty lips,
Then wear nightgowns.

As children leap when they wake,
Happy that it is morn,
My flowers will peep
From many beds, and leap again.

We should not mind so small a flower —

We should not mind so small a flower —

Except it quiet bring

Our little garden that we lost

Back to the Lawn again.

So spicy her Carnations nod —

So drunken, reel her Bees —

So silver steal a hundred flutes

From out a hundred trees —

That whoso sees this little flower

By faith may clear behold

The Bobolinks around the throne

And Dandelions gold.

Emily Dickinson

The answer to the puzzle is saffron crocus, from which high priced spice is made. It heralds that spring has come as well as bobolink and dandelion. Saffron is known as the most expensive spice per gram, because only stigma and style are collected and dried from the little flower. Emily’s simile is appropriate; so silver steal a hundred flutes

From out a hundred trees.

Simple version

We should not mind such a small flower —

However, it brings quietly

Our little garden that we lost in winter

Back to the Lawn again.

So spicy that carnations (in the garden) bow —

So drunken bees (in the garden) totter —

So silver a hundred flutes should be manufactured

Out of a hundred trees —

Whoever sees this little flower

Surely may gaze at

The bobolinks and gold dandelions

Serve around the throne.

There came a Wind like a Bugle —

There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors
As from an Emerald Ghost —
The Doom’s electric Moccasin
That very instant passed —
On a strange Mob of panting Trees
And Fences fled away
And Rivers where the Houses ran
Those looked that lived — that Day —
The Bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings told —
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the World!

Emily Dickinson

A simpler version

The poem tells not hurricane but violent tornade. not elctric: amber

A wind came like a bugle.
It quivered through the grass
And a green chill did pass
Upon the ominous heat,

We barred the windows and the doors
As if we escape from an emerald ghost,
That very instant the doom’s
Amber moccasin passed

On a strange Mob of panting Trees
And Fences fled away and rivers
Where the houses forced out
Cheerfully living people that day.

The wild bell in the steeple
Told the weather in the sky
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet people endured!

The Guest is gold and crimson—

The Guest is gold and crimson—

An Opal guest and gray—

Of Ermine is his doublet—

His Capuchin gay—

He reaches town at nightfall—

He stops at every door—

Who looks for him at morning

I pray him too—explore

The Lark's pure territory—

Or the Lapwing's shore!

Emily Dickinson

A simple ordinary version

Trivially he is the sunset.

The opal and gray guest

Is gold and crimson.

His doublet is of ermine

And his cowl is gay.

He reaches town at nightfall.

He stops at every door,

Which looks for him at morning.

I pray him explore

The Lark's pure territory

Or the Lapwing's shore too!

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - 
In Corners - till a Day 
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvius face
Had let it’s pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -

Emily Dickinson

We can read many essays about the most "mysterious” poem; "My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - ". I always insist that Emily is a mischievous American girl, not a mystic. Firstly native authors tend to interpret "a Loaded Gun" as a weapon of a person with anger. 

I tried to interpret it as a flank volcano and Owner as summit volcano. She is not a feminist so that we don't have to use feministic terms. The poem was mischievously composed, but not philosophical, just a description of two types of volcano; flank volcano and summit volcano. 

As usual, she prays herself be dead volcano early for eternal peace.


I - a flank volcano - had stood
In corners - till a day when
The summit passed by, identified me
And call for me -

And now we roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now we destroy the village -
And every time I speak for Him
The mountains echo straight -

When I smile, such warm light
On the valley glow -
It is as if a Vesuvius was
All smiles with pleasure -

At night when we finish our job
I guard the summit volcano -
’Tis better than to have shared
The white ashes -

I’m more terrible than he -
Any villager shrinks -
On whom I lay a yellow eye -
Or a condemning thumb -

Though I may live longer than he
He must live longer than I -
For I have the power to kill him,
But no power to commit suicide -

Emily Dickinson