The White Election - A Song Cycle for soprano and piano on 32 poems of Emily Dickinson, Part 1 : The Pensive Spring

I sing to use the waiting, 
My bonnet but to tie, 
And shut the door unto my house; 
No more to do have I, 
  
Till, his best step approaching,
We journey to the day, 
And tell each other how we sang 
To keep the dark away.

There is a morn by men unseen
Whose maids upon remoter green
Keep their seraphic May,
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name,
Employ their holiday.
 
Here to light measure move the feet
Which walk no more the village street
Nor by the wood are found,
Here are the birds that sought the sun
When last year's distaff idle hung,
And summer's brows were bound.
 
Ne'er saw I such a wondrous scene,
Ne'er such a ring on such a green
Nor so serene array,
As if the stars, some summer night,
Should swing their cups of Chrysolite
And revel till the day.
 
Like thee to dance, like thee to sing,
People upon the mystic green,
I ask each new May morn.
I wait thy far fantastic bells
Announcing me in other dells
Unto the different dawn!

I had a guinea golden,
I lost it in the sand,
And though the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land,
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye,
That when I could not find it
I sat me down to sigh.
 
I had a crimson robin
Who sang full many a day,
But when the woods were painted,
He too did fly away.
Time brought me other robins,
Their ballads were the same,
Still, for my missing troubadour
I kept the "house at hame".
 
I had a star in heaven,
One "Pleaid" was its name,
And when I was not heeding
It wandered from the same.
And though the skies are crowded,
And all the night ashine,
I do not care about it
Since none of them are mine.
 
My story has a moral;
I have a missing friend,
"Pleiad" its name, and robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty,
Accompanied with tear,
 
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here,
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind,
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.

If she had been the mistletoe
And I had been the rose,
How gay upon your table
My velvet life to close.
Since I am of the Druid,
And she is of the dew,
I'll deck tradition's buttonhole
And send the rose to you.

New feet within my garden go,
New fingers stir the sod;
A troubadour upon the elm
Betrays the solitude.

New children play upon the green,
New weary sleep below;
And still the pensive spring returns,
And still the punctual snow!

She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand --
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it --
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet --
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street --

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers --
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy -- immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

I Should not dare to leave my friend,
Because, because if he should die
While I was gone, and I too late
Should reach the heart that wanted me,
 
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so to see
And could not bear to shut until
They noticed me, they noticed me.
 
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I'd come, so sure I'd come,
It listening, listening went to sleep
Telling my tardy name.
 
My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then
Were useless as next morning's sun
Where midnight's frosts had lain!