She’s happy, with a new Content —

She’s happy, with a new Content —
That feels to her — like Sacrament —
She’s busy — with an altered Care —
As just apprenticed to the Air —

She’s tearful — if she weep at all —
For blissful Causes — Most of all
That Heaven permit so meek as her —
To such a Fate — to Minister.

Emily Dickinson

She’s happy with a new wax —
That feels to her like altar bread—
She’s busy with an altered care —
As just learning from her master, the air —

She’s tearful for blissful cause— 
If she weep at all —
Most of all that Heaven permit so meek as her —
To do service on the altar.

Trivially “she” is an altar candle.

My Garden — like the Beach —

My Garden — like the Beach —
Denotes there be — a Sea —
That's Summer —
Such as These — the Pearls
She fetches — such as Me

Emily Dickinson 

My Garden is like the Beach —It denotes that there be a Sea —That's Summer —Who fetches such as meThe Pearls such as These Her garden was full of her favorite Daisies. She might have been so happy to enjoy a wordplay. Daisy is a pet form of Margaret, the Greek counterpart of Pearl.

 

Heart, not so heavy as mine

Heart, not so heavy as mine
Wending late home ―
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune ―

A careless snatch ― a ballad ― 
A ditty of the street ―
Yet to my irritated Ear
An Anodyne so sweet ―

It was as if a Bobolink
Sauntering this way
Carolled, and paused, and carolled ―
Then bubbled slow away!

It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a dusty way ―
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why!

Tomorrow, night will come again ―
Perhaps, weary and sore ―
Ah Bugle! By my window
I pray you pass once more.

Emily Dickinson

In simpler English

It’s heart, not so heavy as mine
Went home late ―
When it passed my window
It whistled a tune ―

Suddenly it sang a ballad ― 
An air of the street ―
A very sweet pain-killer
To my irritated Ear yet sweet ―

It was as if a bobolink
Strolling this way
Caroled, and paused, and caroled ―
Then slowly bubbled away!

It was as if a brook on a dusty way
Chirped and set bleeding feet ―
To minuets
Without the knowing why!

Tomorrow, night will come again ―
Perhaps, weary and painful ―
Ah Bugle! I pray you pass once more.
By my window

It may be a nocturnal hunter. It sings a gloomy song that relieves Emily’s painful heart. I bet on an owl, one of her favorite birds.

Ah, Necromancy Sweet!

Ah, Necromancy Sweet!
Ah, Wizard erudite!
Teach me the skill,

That I instil the pain
Surgeons assuage in vain,
Nor Herb of all the plain
Can Heal!

Emily Dickinson

Only bees know the secret way of brewing sweet honey! Honey is Emily’s favorite sweet.

Ah, sweet magic!
Ah, skillful wizard!
Teach me the skill,

That I appease the pain
Which surgeons fail to lessen,
Nor herb of all the plain
Can heal!

I had a daily Bliss

I had a daily Bliss
I half indifferent viewed
Till sudden I perceived it stir —
It grew as I pursued

Till when around a Height
It wasted from my sight
Increased beyond my utmost scope
I learned to estimate.

Emily Dickinson

In Simplified English

I had a daily Bliss
I enjoyed viewing half indifferent
Till I perceived it stir suddenly—
It grew as I pursued

Though it disappeared from my sight
Around a Height,
It grew increased beyond my utmost scope
I learned to estimate.

“it” is apparently the Sun, that Emily admires.

To this World she returned.

To this World she returned.
But with a tinge of that —
A Compound manner,
As a Sod
Espoused a Violet,
That chiefer to the Skies
Than to himself, allied,
Dwelt hesitating, half of Dust,
And half of Day, the Bride.

Emily Dickinson

She returned to this district.
But with a slight coloring ——
In a mixed manner,
Just like a sod
Was married to a violet,
That became a good with skies
Than allied to him,
The bride dwelled hesitating, 
Half helped by the soil and
Half by the sun.

The possible candidate of “she” is a daisy. She opens the crown and bathes the rays of the sun in the daytime. After dark, she closes it and absorbing nutrition from the soil.

Through the strait pass of suffering —

Through the strait pass of suffering —
The Martyrs — even — trod.
Their feet — upon Temptations —
Their faces — upon God —

A stately — shriven — Company —
Convulsion — playing round —
Harmless — as streaks of Meteor —
Upon a Planet’s Bond —

Their faith — the everlasting troth —
Their Expectation — fair —
The Needle — to the North Degree —
Wades — so — thro’ polar Air!

Emily Dickinson

The poem describes a slowly changing pattern of aurora in the polar zone. The third line of the second stanza “The Needle — to the North Degree” is a critical hint.

The Martyrs trod further
Through the narrow pass
Feeling intolerable pain,
Although their feet are on temptations,
Their faces are on God.

A stately shriven company
Goes into convulsion,
They are innocent as beams of meteor 
On a Planet’s Bond —

Their faith, that is, the everlasting troth 
And their expectations are fair.
The Needle pointing to the North Pole
Advances on foot through’ polar Air!

So the Eyes accost ― and sunder

So the Eyes accost ― and sunder
In an Audience ―
Stamped ― occasionally ― forever ―
So may Countenance

Entertain ― without addressing
Countenance of One
In a Neighboring Horizon ―
Gone ― as soon as known ―

Emily Dickinson

Emily successfully immortalized the Leonids in 1833 in verse; the most famous meteor shower throughout history. Her compact writing style is appropriate for ephemeral beauty of meteors.

So the meteors greet and separate
In viewers ―
Stamped ―occasionally ― forever ―
So one meteor may entertain

Without greeting another meteor,
That is gone in a neighboring horizon ―
As soon as they got to know each other ―

His Gait — was soundless, like the Bird —

His Gait — was soundless, like the Bird —
But rapid — like the Roe —
His fashions, quaint, Mosaic —
Or haply, Mistletoe —

His conversation — seldom —
His laughter, like the Breeze —
That dies away in Dimples
Among the pensive Trees —

Our interview — was transient —
Of me, himself was shy —
And God forbid I look behind —
Since that appalling Day!

Emily Dickinson

The answer is a cast-off skin of snake. Emily composes much poetry of weird things, disgusted by successful poets of romantic school.

The only ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in Mechlin lace,
So he wore no sandal on his foot
And stepped like snowflakes.

His moving was silent like the bird
But rapid like the roe deer.
His costume is quaint, mosaic
Or by chance, mistletoe —

His conversation was seldom.
His laughter was like the Breeze
That was absorbed in hollows
Among the thoughtful trees.

Our interview was brief.
He was shy of me,
And God forbid I review it,
Since that appalling Day!

Appalling day is referred to “Paradise Lost”. The snake tempted Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden fruit so that they were expelled from Paradise.

Glowing is her Bonnet

Glowing is her Bonnet
Glowing is her Cheek,
Glowing is her Kirtle,
Yet she cannot speak.

Better as the Daisy
From the Summer hill
Vanish unrecorded
Save by tearful rill ―

Save by loving sunrise
Looking for her face.
Save by feet unnumbered
Pausing at the place.

Emily Dickinson

I have no idea other than a dandelion. The naïve flower is her favorite.

Glowing is her bonnet
Glowing is her cheek,
Glowing is her gown,
Yet she cannot speak.

Happier than the Daisy
From the summer hill
Vanish unremembered 
Save by tearful rill ―

Save by loving sunrise
Looking for her face.
Save by unnumbered feet
Resting at the place.

A solemn thing — it was — I said —

A solemn thing — it was — I said —
A woman — white — to be —
And wear — if God should count me fit —
Her blameless mystery —

A hallowed thing — to drop a life
Into the purple well —
Too plummetless — that it return —
Eternity — until —

I pondered how the bliss would look —
And would it feel as big —
When I could take it in my hand —
As hovering — seen — through fog —

And then — the size of this “small” life —
The Sages — call it small —
Swelled — like Horizons — in my vest —
And I sneered — softly — “small”!

Emily Dickinson

At first I inferred a carnivorous plant from “To drop a life into the purple well”. However, I failed to find a carnivorous plant of noble color, e.g. white or purple. I remembered a digitalis aka foxglove, which looked like a carnivorous plant and that poisonous, sometime lethal. The author sneered at sages’ opinion “It is small”. Digitalis is so poisonous and deep that a life in the purple well cannot climb back alive. Digitalis (purple well) return eternity (death).

In simple English

I said it was a solemn thing
To be a white woman
And wear her innocent mystery
If God should regard me fit —

It was a sacred thing to drop a life
Into the purple well
Too fathomless that it return
Eternity —

Until I pondered how the joy would look 
And would it feel as big,
When I could take it in my hand
It was seen as hovering through fog —

And then the size of this “small” life.
The Sages call it small
Which was swelled like Horizons in my breast,
And I sneered softly “small”!