Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two. Эмили Дикинсон

Чтение книги онлайн.

      A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,

      That sat it down to rest,

      Nor noticed that the ebbing day

      Flowed silver to the west,

      Nor noticed night did soft descend

      Nor constellation burn,

      Intent upon the vision

      Of latitudes unknown.

      The angels, happening that way,

      This dusty heart espied;

      Tenderly took it up from toil

      And carried it to God.

      There, – sandals for the barefoot;

      There, – gathered from the gales,

      Do the blue havens by the hand

      Lead the wandering sails.

      I should have been too glad, I see,

      Too lifted for the scant degree

         Of life's penurious round;

      My little circuit would have shamed

      This new circumference, have blamed

         The homelier time behind.

      I should have been too saved, I see,

      Too rescued; fear too dim to me

         That I could spell the prayer

      I knew so perfect yesterday, —

      That scalding one, "Sabachthani,"

         Recited fluent here.

      Earth would have been too much, I see,

      And heaven not enough for me;

         I should have had the joy

      Without the fear to justify, —

      The palm without the Calvary;

         So, Saviour, crucify.

      Defeat whets victory, they say;

      The reefs in old Gethsemane

         Endear the shore beyond.

      'T is beggars banquets best define;

      'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, —

         Faith faints to understand.

      It tossed and tossed, —

      A little brig I knew, —

      O'ertook by blast,

      It spun and spun,

      And groped delirious, for morn.

      It slipped and slipped,

      As one that drunken stepped;

      Its white foot tripped,

      Then dropped from sight.

      Ah, brig, good-night

      To crew and you;

      The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue,

      To break for you.

      Victory comes late,

      And is held low to freezing lips

      Too rapt with frost

      To take it.

      How sweet it would have tasted,

      Just a drop!

      Was God so economical?

      His table 's spread too high for us

      Unless we dine on tip-toe.

      Crumbs fit such little mouths,

      Cherries suit robins;

      The eagle's golden breakfast

      Strangles them.

      God keeps his oath to sparrows,

      Who of little love

      Know how to starve!

      God gave a loaf to every bird,

      But just a crumb to me;

      I dare not eat it, though I starve, —

      My poignant luxury

      To own it, touch it, prove the feat

      That made the pellet mine, —

      Too happy in my sparrow chance

      For ampler coveting.

      It might be famine all around,

      I could not miss an ear,

      Such plenty smiles upon my board,

      My garner shows so fair.

      I wonder how the rich may feel, —

      An Indiaman – an Earl?

      I deem that I with but a crumb

      Am sovereign of them all.

      Experiment to me

      Is every one I meet.

      If it contain a kernel?

      The figure of a nut

      Presents upon a tree,

      Equally plausibly;

      But meat within is requisite,

      To squirrels and to me.

      My country need not change her gown,

      Her triple suit as sweet

      As when 't was cut at Lexington,

      And first pronounced "a fit."

      Great Britain disapproves "the stars;"

      Disparagement discreet, —

      There 's something in their attitude

      That taunts her bayonet.

      Faith is a fine invention

      For gentlemen who see;

      But microscopes are prudent

      In an emergency!

      Except the heaven had come so near,

      So seemed to choose my door,

      The distance would not haunt me so;

      I had not hoped before.

      But just to hear the grace depart

      I never thought to see,

      Afflicts me with СКАЧАТЬ