Emily Dickinson
poetessa statunitense
«Our little Kinsmen - after Rain | In plenty may be seen, | A Pink and Pulpy multitude | The tepid Ground upon. | A needless life, it seemed to me | Until a little Bird | As to a Hospitality | Advanced and breakfasted - | | As I of He, so God of Me | I pondered, may have judged, | And left the little Angle Worm | With Modesties enlarged.»
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«These tested Our Horizon - | Then disappeared | As Birds before achieving | A Latitude. | Our Retrospection of Them | A fixed Delight, | But Our Anticipation | A Dice - a Doubt.»
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«We outgrow love, like other things | And put it in the Drawer - | Till it an Antique fashion shows - | Like Costumes Grandsires wore.»
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«When I have seen the Sun emerge | From His amazing House - | And leave a Day at every Door | A Deed, in every place - | Without the incident of Fame | Or accident of Noise - | The Earth has seemed to me a Drum, | Pursued of little Boys.»
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«Crisis is a Hair | Toward which forces creep | Past which - forces retrograde | If it come in sleep | To suspend the Breath | Is the most we can | Ignorant is it Life or Death | Nicely balancing - | | Let an instant push | Or an Atom press | Or a Circle hesitate | In Circumference | | It may jolt the Hand | That adjusts the Hair | That secures Eternity | From presenting - Here.»
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«From Us She wandered now, a Year - | Her tarrying, unknown. | If Wilderness prevent Her feet - | Or that Ethereal Zone | No Man hath seen and lived - | We ignorant must be - | We only know what time of Year | We felt the Mystery.»
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«To my quick ear the Leaves - conferred - | The Bushes - they were Bells - | I could not find a Privacy | From Nature's sentinels - | In Cave if I presumed to hide | The Walls - begun to tell - | Creation seemed a mighty Crack - | To make me visible.»
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«Drab Habitation of Whom? | Tabernacle or Tomb - | Or Dome of Worm - | Or Porch of Gnome - | Or some Elf's Catacomb?»
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«Of Consciousness, her awful Mate | The Soul cannot be rid - | As easy the secreting her | Behind the Eyes of God - | The deepest hid is sighted first | And scant to Him the Crowd - | What triple Lenses burn upon | The Escapade from God.»
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«A Cloud withdrew from the Sky | Superior Glory be | But that Cloud and it's Auxiliaries | Are forever lost to me | Had I but further scanned | Had I secured the Glow | In an Hermetic Memory | It had availed me now - | | Never to pass the Angel | With a glance and a Bow | Till I am firm in Heaven | Is my intention now.»
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«Of Silken Speech and Specious Shoe | A Traitor is the Bee | His service to the newest Grace | Present continually | His Suit a chance | His Troth a Term | Protracted as the Breeze | Continual Ban propoundeth He | Continual Divorce.»
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«How fortunate the Grave - | All Prizes to obtain - | Successful certain, if at last, | First Suitor not in vain.»
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«How happy I was if I could forget | To remember how sad I am | Would be an easy adversity | But the recollecting of Bloom | Keeps making November difficult | Till I who was almost bold | Lose my way like a little Child | And perish of the cold.»
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«Herein a Blossom lies - | A Sepulchre, between - | Cross it, and overcome the Bee - | Remain - 'tis but a Rind.»
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«We safe commit thee - | Tongue if it hath, | Inviolate to thee - | Silence - denote - | And Sanctity - enforce thee - | Passenger - of Infinity.»
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«My Maker - let me be | Enamored most of thee - | But nearer this | I more should miss.»
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«March is the Month of Expectation. | The things we do not know - | The Persons of prognostication | Are coming now - | We try to show becoming firmness - | But pompous Joy | Betrays us, as his first Betrothal | Betrays a Boy.»
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«Bees are Black - with Gilt Surcingles - | Buccaneers of Buzz - | Ride abroad in ostentation | And subsist on Fuzz - | Fuzz ordained - not Fuzz contingent - | Marrows of the Hill. | Jugs - a Universe's fracture | Could not jar or spill.»
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«A Field of Stubble, lying sere | Beneath the second Sun - | It's Toils to Brindled People thrust - | It's Triumphs - to the Bin - | Accosted by a timid Bird | Irresolute of Alms - | Is often seen - but seldom felt, | On our New England Farms.»
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«No Passenger was known to flee - | That lodged a Night in memory - | That wily - subterranean Inn | Contrives that none go out again.»
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