The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ There's not a charge to me

       Like that old measure in the boughs,

       That phraseless melody

       The wind does, working like a hand

       Whose fingers brush the sky,

       Then quiver down, with tufts of tune

       Permitted gods and me.

       When winds go round and round in bands,

       And thrum upon the door,

       And birds take places overhead,

       To bear them orchestra,

       I crave him grace, of summer boughs,

       If such an outcast be,

       He never heard that fleshless chant

       Rise solemn in the tree,

       As if some caravan of sound

       On deserts, in the sky,

       Had broken rank,

       Then knit, and passed

       In seamless company.

      XXV.

       DEATH AND LIFE.

       Apparently with no surprise

       To any happy flower,

       The frost beheads it at its play

       In accidental power.

       The blond assassin passes on,

       The sun proceeds unmoved

       To measure off another day

       For an approving God.

      XXVI.

       'T was later when the summer went

       Than when the cricket came,

       And yet we knew that gentle clock

       Meant nought but going home.

       'T was sooner when the cricket went

       Than when the winter came,

       Yet that pathetic pendulum

       Keeps esoteric time.

      XXVII.

       INDIAN SUMMER.

       These are the days when birds come back,

       A very few, a bird or two,

       To take a backward look.

       These are the days when skies put on

       The old, old sophistries of June, —

       A blue and gold mistake.

       Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,

       Almost thy plausibility

       Induces my belief,

       Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,

       And softly through the altered air

       Hurries a timid leaf!

       Oh, sacrament of summer days,

       Oh, last communion in the haze,

       Permit a child to join,

       Thy sacred emblems to partake,

       Thy consecrated bread to break,

       Taste thine immortal wine!

      XXVIII.

       AUTUMN.

       The morns are meeker than they were,

       The nuts are getting brown;

       The berry's cheek is plumper,

       The rose is out of town.

       The maple wears a gayer scarf,

       The field a scarlet gown.

       Lest I should be old-fashioned,

       I'll put a trinket on.

      XXIX.

       BECLOUDED.

       The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

       A travelling flake of snow

       Across a barn or through a rut

       Debates if it will go.

       A narrow wind complains all day

       How some one treated him;

       Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

       Without her diadem.

      XXX.

       THE HEMLOCK.

       I think the hemlock likes to stand

       Upon a marge of snow;

       It suits his own austerity,

       And satisfies an awe

       That men must slake in wilderness,

       Or in the desert cloy, —

       An instinct for the hoar, the bald,

       Lapland's necessity.

       The hemlock's nature thrives on cold;

       The gnash of northern winds

       Is sweetest nutriment to him,

       His best Norwegian wines.

       To satin races he is nought;

       But children on the Don

       Beneath his tabernacles play,

       And Dnieper wrestlers run.

      XXXI.

       There's a certain slant of light,

       On winter afternoons,

       That oppresses, like the weight

       Of cathedral tunes.

       Heavenly hurt it gives us;

       We can find no scar,

       But internal difference

       Where the meanings are.

       None may teach it anything,

       СКАЧАТЬ