The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       THE BEE.

       Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

       I hear the level bee:

       A jar across the flowers goes,

       Their velvet masonry

       Withstands until the sweet assault

       Their chivalry consumes,

       While he, victorious, tilts away

       To vanquish other blooms.

       His feet are shod with gauze,

       His helmet is of gold;

       His breast, a single onyx

       With chrysoprase, inlaid.

       His labor is a chant,

       His idleness a tune;

       Oh, for a bee's experience

       Of clovers and of noon!

      XVI.

       Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

       Indicative that suns go down;

       The notice to the startled grass

       That darkness is about to pass.

      XVII.

       As children bid the guest good-night,

       And then reluctant turn,

       My flowers raise their pretty lips,

       Then put their nightgowns on.

       As children caper when they wake,

       Merry that it is morn,

       My flowers from a hundred cribs

       Will peep, and prance again.

      XVIII.

       Angels in the early morning

       May be seen the dews among,

       Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:

       Do the buds to them belong?

       Angels when the sun is hottest

       May be seen the sands among,

       Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;

       Parched the flowers they bear along.

      XIX.

       So bashful when I spied her,

       So pretty, so ashamed!

       So hidden in her leaflets,

       Lest anybody find;

       So breathless till I passed her,

       So helpless when I turned

       And bore her, struggling, blushing,

       Her simple haunts beyond!

       For whom I robbed the dingle,

       For whom betrayed the dell,

       Many will doubtless ask me,

       But I shall never tell!

      XX.

       TWO WORLDS.

       It makes no difference abroad,

       The seasons fit the same,

       The mornings blossom into noons,

       And split their pods of flame.

       Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,

       The brooks brag all the day;

       No blackbird bates his jargoning

       For passing Calvary.

       Auto-da-fe and judgment

       Are nothing to the bee;

       His separation from his rose

       To him seems misery.

      XXI.

       THE MOUNTAIN.

       The mountain sat upon the plain

       In his eternal chair,

       His observation omnifold,

       His inquest everywhere.

       The seasons prayed around his knees,

       Like children round a sire:

       Grandfather of the days is he,

       Of dawn the ancestor.

      XXII.

       A DAY.

       I'll tell you how the sun rose, —

       A ribbon at a time.

       The steeples swam in amethyst,

       The news like squirrels ran.

       The hills untied their bonnets,

       The bobolinks begun.

       Then I said softly to myself,

       "That must have been the sun!"

       * * *

       But how he set, I know not.

       There seemed a purple stile

       Which little yellow boys and girls

       Were climbing all the while

       Till when they reached the other side,

       A dominie in gray

       Put gently up the evening bars,

       And led the flock away.

      XXIII.

       The butterfly's assumption-gown,

       In chrysoprase apartments hung,

       This afternoon put on.

       How condescending to descend,

       And be of buttercups the friend

       In a New England town!

      XXIV.

       THE WIND.

       Of all the sounds despatched abroad,

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