The White Election - A Song Cycle for soprano and piano on 32 poems of Emily Dickinson, Part 4 : My Feet Slip Nearer

The grave my little cottage is,
Where keeping house for thee,
I make my parlor orderly
And lay the marble tea
 
For two divided briefly,
A cycle it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.

I did not reach thee, but my feet
Slip nearer every day,
Three rivers and a hill to cross,
One desert and a sea;
I shall not count the journey one
When I am telling thee.
 
Two deserts, but the year is cold,
So that will help the sand;
One desert crossed, the second one
Will feel as cool as land.
Sahara is too little price
To pay for they right hand.
 
The sea comes last.  Step merry, feet,
So short we have to go,
To play together we are prone,
But we must labor now;
The last shall be the lightest load
That we have had to draw.
 
The sun goes crooked.
That is night,
Before he makes the bend.
We must have passed the middle sea.
Almost we wish the end
Were further off;
Too great it seems
So near the whole to stand.
 
We step like plush,
We stand like snow,
The waters murmur new.
Three rivers and the hill are passed,
Two deserts and the sea!
Now death usurps my premium,
And gets the look at thee.

My wars are laid away in books;
I have one battle more,
A foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o'er,
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best, neglecting me,
Till all the rest have died.
How sweet if I am not forgot
By chums that passed away,
Since playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity!

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!

The going from a world we know,
To one a wonder still
Is like the child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill.
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone?

Upon his Saddle sprung a Bird
And crossed a thousand Trees
Before a Fence without a Fare
His Fantasy did please
And then he lifted up his Throat
And squandered such a Note
A Universe that overheard
Is stricken by it yet --

Beauty crowds me till I die,
Beauty, mercy have on me,
But if I expire today
Let it be in sight of thee.

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.