Bright Glimpses of Immortality

Emily Dickinson

O my Soul, she might have said,Is a hut out in the wild(I discovered it when just a child).On honeydew and drops of anguish I have fed.She had known great pain, like holding her breathUntil at last the sudden letting go.Certain slants of light on winter afternoons—OhYes! that Despair with the distant look of Death.Studious in the fair schoolroom of the sky.Will the answer come? Perhaps, but first she must die.How she longs to know! Each drop of anguish burns her so!Startles of Beauty and Terror cause her mind to glow.Think of those bright glimpses of immortality!How often she saw what we don't see.

Flannery O'Connor

A peacock screamed. A visitor stopped by.Flannery stood at the door to welcome him.A bit embarrassed: "I only stopped to say 'hi.'"She needed her crutches, though she didn't look thin."You're right. A good man is hard to find.And when you do, the violent bear him away.I think you know the man I mean. His kindIs growing rarer. I just wanted to sayWe two will miss him. Your so-called Gothic writingPleased him, because you understood how oddAnd even frightening, yet always enlightening,Are the spooky creations of the living God." Flannery burst out laughing. "Well, you may be right.My eyes are harsh. Such oddities just swim into my sight."

Elizabeth Bishop

How well she understands the tides and beachesAnd what it feels like on a cold March day.About sandpipers and such she has much to say;She has nothing to say about leeches.She invites us to see things anew but never preaches.Over language she certainly holds sway.About that sandpiper—she knows just the way.He must have watched his toes in water; she teachesUs to remember precisely how the oceanHisses in the sand and then withdraws with a sucking motion.In her sestina on the art of losingWe're not allowed the benefit of choosingWhat we lose. Sometimes the loss is a disaster.It's an art, she tartly says, easy to master.