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

Tried always and Condemned by thee

Tried always and Condemned by thee
Permit me this reprieve
That dying I may earn the look
For which I cease to live —

Emily is accused of witchcraft. She will die of shock at her look.

You have interrogated incessantly and condemned me.
Permit me reprieve so that
I may get the hideous look
For which I cease to breathe —

Count not that far that can be had,

Count not that far that can be had,
Though sunset lie between —
Nor that adjacent, that beside,
Is further than the sun.

The sunset is an obstacle to measure the distance of neighboring stars. There may be another star behind the sun.

Don’t measure how far two neighbor stars be,
Though the sunset lie between them—
Nor the adfacent star is
Further than the sun.

A Planted Life - diversified

A Planted Life - diversified
With Gold and Silver Pain
To prove the presence of the Ore
In Particles - ‘tis when

A Value struggle - it exist -
A Power - will proclaim
Although Annihilation pile
Whole chaoses on Him –

Emily talks herself that struggle is valuable for prospector’s life. He doesn’t mind the result.

A Planted Life, diversified
With pain for gold or Silver
To prove the presence of the Ore
In Particles– a discoverer

Will proclaim that ‘tis when
You struggle a value, it exist
Although destruction pile
Whole confusion on Him
-

I know some lonely Houses off the Road

I know some lonely Houses off the Road
A Robber’d like the look of —
Wooden barred,
And Windows hanging low,
Inviting to —
A Portico,
Where two could creep —
One — hand the Tools —
The other peep —
To make sure All’s Asleep —
Old fashioned eyes —
Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the Kitchen’d look, by night,
With just a Clock —
But they could gag the Tick —
And Mice won’t bark —
And so the Walls — don’t tell —
None — will —

A pair of Spectacles ajar just stir —
An Almanac’s aware —
Was it the Mat — winked,
Or a Nervous Star?
The Moon — slides down the stair,
To see who’s there!

There’s plunder — where —
Tankard, or Spoon —
Earring — or Stone —
A Watch — Some Ancient Brooch
To match the grandmamma —
Staid sleeping — there —

Day — rattles — too
Stealth’s — slow —
The Sun has got as far
As the third Sycamore —
Screams Chanticleer
“Who’s there”?

And Echoes — Trains away,
Sneer — “Where”!
While the old Couple, just astir,
Fancy the Sunrise — left the door ajar!

Emily describes robbers’ stealing into Elderly couple’s house.

I know little lonely Houses off the Road
Robbers would like the look of —
Wooden barred,
And Windows hanging low,
Inviting to —
A Portico,
Where two could steal —
One could hand the Tools —
The other could peep —
To make sure all is asleep —
Old aged eyes —
It is not easy to surprise!

How orderly the Kitchen could look, by night,
With just a Clock orderly—
But they could stop the Tick —
And Mice won’t bark —
And so the walls don’t tell —
None will tell—

A pair of visible thing partly open —
A calendar is awake —
Was it the floor cover
Or did a nervous star wink?
The Moon slides down the stair,
To see who’s there!

There’s plunder — where —
Drinking cup, or spoon —
Earring or precious stone —
A Watch and rather ancient brooch
To match the grandmamma —
She is sleeping soundly there —

Day wakes up too
Stealth is slow —
The Sun has got as far
As the third Sycamore —
A chanticleer screams
“Who’s there”?

It echoes and trains away,
they sneer — “Where”!
While the old Couple, just awake,
Fancy the Sunrise left the door ajar!

The Soul should always stand ajar

The Soul should always stand ajar
That if the Heaven inquire
He will not be obliged to wait
Or shy of troubling Her

Depart, before the Host have slid
The Bolt unto the Door ―
To search for the accomplished Guest,
Her Visitor, no more ―

The soul must be prepared for the Guest from Heaven.

The soul should always stand ajar
Otherwise if God visit
He must use the time to wait
Or mind troubling her depart

Before the Host have slid
The Bolt unto the Door ―
When she search for the perfect Guest,
Her Visitor is found no more ―

Remorse is memory awake,

Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir,—
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.

It’s past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless,—the disease
Not even God can heal;
For ’t is his institution,—
The complement of hell.

Regret is incurable! It is his institution and the complement of Hell.

Regret is active memory,
Her carriers are all disturbed,—
We sense a presence of lost acts
At window and at door.

Its past is posted before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
To facilitate her inspection
Of its condensed document.

Regret is cureless disease
That even God cannot heal;
For it is his institution,—
The complement of hell.