Emily Dickinson
poetessa statunitense
«Trusty as the stars | Who quit their shining working | Prompt as when I lit them | In Genesis 'new house, | Durable as dawn | Whose antiquated blossom | Makes a world's suspense | Perish and rejoice.»
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«Gathered into the Earth, | And out of story - | Gathered to that strange Fame - | That lonesome Glory | That hath no omen here - but Awe.»
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«The worthlessness of Earthly things | The Ditty is that Nature Sings - | And then - enforces their delight | Till Synods are inordinate.»
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«A Saucer holds a Cup | In sordid human Life | But in a Squirrel's estimate | A Saucer holds a Loaf - | A Table of a Tree | Demands the little King | And every Breeze that run along | His Dining Room do swing - | | His Cutlery - he keeps | Within his Russet Lips - | To see it flashing when he dines | Do Birmingham eclipse - | | Convicted - could we be | Of our Minutiae | The smallest Citizen that flies | Is heartier than we.»
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«Death warrants are supposed to be | An enginery of Equity | A merciful mistake | A pencil in an Idol's Hand | A Devotee has oft consigned | To Crucifix or Block.»
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«His Heart was darker than the starless night | For that there is a morn | But in this black Receptacle | Can be no Bode of Dawn.»
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«Dreams are the subtle Dower | That make us rich an Hour - | Then fling us poor | Out of the Purple Door | Into the Precinct raw | Possessed before.»
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«How much the present moment means | To those who've nothing more - | The Fop - the Carp - the Atheist - | Stake an entire store | Upon a Moment's shallow Rim | While their commuted Feet | The Torrents of Eternity | Do all but inundate.»
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«His Mansion in the Pool | The Frog forsakes - | He rises on a Log | And statements makes - | His Auditors two Worlds | Deducting me - | The Orator of April | Is hoarse Today - | His Mittens at his Feet | No Hand hath he - | His eloquence a Bubble | As Fame should be - | Applaud him to discover | To your chagrin | Demosthenes has vanished | In Waters Green.»
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«Summer - we all have seen - | A few of us - believed - | A few - the more aspiring | Unquestionably loved - | But Summer does not care - | She takes her gracious way | As eligible as the Moon | To the Temerity - | | Deputed to adore - | The Doom to be adored | Unknown as to an Ecstasy | The Embryo endowed.»
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«Suppose the time will come | Aid it in the coming | When the Bird will crowd the Tree | And the Bee be booming - | I suppose the time will come | Hinder it a little | When the Corn in Silk will dress | And in Chintz the Apple | | I believe the Day will be | When the Jay will giggle | At his new white House the Earth | That, too, halt a little.»
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«In many and reportless places | We feel a Joy - | Reportless, also, but sincere as Nature | Or Deity - | It comes, without a consternation - | Dissolves - the same - | But leaves a sumptuous Destitution - | Without a Name - | | Profane it by a search - we cannot | It has no home - | Nor we who having once waylaid it - | Thereafter roam.»
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«Long Years apart - can make no | Breach a second cannot fill - | The absence of the Witch does not | Invalidate the spell - | The embers of a Thousand Years | Uncovered by the Hand | That fondled them when they were Fire | Will stir and understand.»
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«Praise it - 'tis dead - | It cannot glow - | Warm this inclement Ear | With the encomium it earned | Since it was gathered here - | Invest this alabaster Zest | In the Delights of Dust - | Remitted - since it flitted it | In recusance august.»
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«"Secrets" is a daily word | Yet does not exist - | Muffled - it remits surmise - | Murmured - it has ceased - | Dungeoned in the Human Breast | Doubtless secrets lie - | But that Grate inviolate - | Comes nor goes away | Nothing with a Tongue or Ear - | Secrets stapled there | Will emerge but once - and dumb - | To the Sepulchre.»
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«The Butterfly's Numidian Gown | With spots of Burnish - roasted on | Is proof against the Sun - | But prone to shut it's spotted Fan | And panting on a Clover lean | As if it were undone.»
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«Those Cattle smaller than a Bee | That herd upon the Eye - | Whose tillage is the passing Crumb - | Those Cattle are the Fly - | Of Barns for Winter - blameless - | Extemporaneous stalls | They found to our objection - | On Eligible Walls - | Reserving the presumption | To suddenly descend | And gallop on the Furniture - | Or odiouser offend - | Of their peculiar calling | Unqualified to judge | To Nature we remand them | To justify or scourge.»
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«Touch lightly Nature's sweet Guitar | Unless thou know'st the Tune | Or every Bird will point at thee | Because a Bard too soon.»
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«These held their Wick above the west - | Till when the Red declined - | Or how the Amber aided it - | Defied to be defined - | Then waned without disparagement | In a dissembling Hue | That would not let the Eye decide | Did it abide or no.»
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«Hope is a strange invention - | A Patent of the Heart - | In unremitting action | Yet never wearing out - | Of this electric adjunct | Not anything is known | But it's unique momentum | Embellish all we own.»
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