Emily Dickinson
poetessa statunitense
«Morning is due to all - | To some - the Night - | To an imperial few - | The Auroral Light.»
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«Blossoms will run away - | Cakes reign but a Day, | But Memory like Melody, | Is pink eternally.»
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«It would not know if it were spurned, | This gallant little flower - | How therefore safe to be a flower | If one would tamper there. | To enter, it would not aspire - | But may it not despair | That it is not a Cavalier, | To dare and perish there?»
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«We shun it ere it comes, | Afraid of Joy, | Then sue it to delay | And lest it fly, | Beguile it more and more, | May not this be | Old Suitor Heaven, | Like our dismay at thee?»
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«Witchcraft was hung, in History, | But History and I | Find all the Witchcraft that we need | Around us, Every Day.»
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«Expanse cannot be lost - | Not Joy, but a Decree | Is Deity - | His Scene, Infinity - | Whose rumor's Gate was shut so tight | Before my Beam was sown, | Not even a Prognostic's push | Could make a Dent thereon - | The World that thou hast opened | Shuts for thee, | But not alone, | We all have followed thee - | Escape more slowly | To thy Tracts of Sheen - | The Tent is listening, | But the Troops are gone!»
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«The Bird her punctual music brings | And lays it in it's place - | It's place is in the Human Heart | And in the Heavenly Grace - | What respite from her thrilling toil | Did Beauty ever take - | But Work might be Electric Rest | To those that Magic mak.»
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«To her derided Home | A Weed of Summer came - | She did not know her station low | Nor Ignominy's name - | Bestowed a summer long | Upon a frameless flower - | Then swept as lightly from disdain | As Lady from her Bower - | Of Bliss the Codes are few - | As Jesus cites of Him - | "Come unto me" the Moiety | That wafts the Seraphim.»
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«He ate and drank the precious Words - | His Spirit grew robust - | He knew no more that he was poor, | Nor that his frame was Dust - | He danced along the dingy Days | And this Bequest of Wings | Was but a Book - What Liberty | A loosened Spirit brings.»
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«This Me - that walks and works - must die | Some fair or stormy Day - | Adversity if it may be | Or wild prosperity | The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight | Before my mind was born | Not even a Prognostic's push | Can make a Dent thereon.»
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«Cosmopolites without a plea | Alight in every Land | The compliments of Paradise | From these within my Hand | Their dappled Journey - to themselves | A compensation fair - | Knock and it shall be opened | Is their Theology.»
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«Not at Home to Callers | Says the Naked Tree - | Bonnet due in April - | Wishing you Good Day.»
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«The Bobolink is gone - the Rowdy of the Meadow - | And no one swaggers now but me - | The Presbyterian Birds can now resume the Meeting | He gaily interrupted that overflowing Day | When opening the Sabbath in their afflictive Way | He bowed to Heaven instead of Earth | And shouted Let us pray.»
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«The Lassitudes of Contemplation | Beget a force - | They are the spirit's still vacation | That him refresh - | The Dreams consolidate in action - | What mettle fair.»
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«Immured in Heaven! | What a Cell! | Let every Bondage be, | Thou sweetest of the Universe, | Like that which ravished thee.»
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«Few, yet enough, | Enough is One - | To that etherial throng | Have not each one of us the right | To stealthily belong.»
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«Declaiming Waters none may dread - | But Waters that are still | Are so for that most fatal cause | In Nature - they are full.»
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«'Tis not the swaying frame we miss - | It is the steadfast Heart, | That had it beat a thousand years, | With Love alone had bent - | It's fervor the electric Oar, | That bore it through the Tomb - | Ourselves, denied the privilege, | Consolelessly presume.»
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«Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights, | With plain inspecting face - | "Did you" or "Did you not," to ask - | 'Tis "Conscience," Childhood's Nurse - | With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair | Upon my wincing Head - | "All" Rogues "shall have their part in" what - | The Phosphorous of God.»
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«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.»
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