The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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       And later, in August it may be,

       When the meadows parching lie,

       Beware, lest this little brook of life

       Some burning noon go dry!

      X.

       TRANSPLANTED.

       As if some little Arctic flower,

       Upon the polar hem,

       Went wandering down the latitudes,

       Until it puzzled came

       To continents of summer,

       To firmaments of sun,

       To strange, bright crowds of flowers,

       And birds of foreign tongue!

       I say, as if this little flower

       To Eden wandered in —

       What then? Why, nothing, only,

       Your inference therefrom!

      XI.

       THE OUTLET.

       My river runs to thee:

       Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

       My river waits reply.

       Oh sea, look graciously!

       I'll fetch thee brooks

       From spotted nooks, —

       Say, sea,

       Take me!

      XII.

       IN VAIN.

       I cannot live with you,

       It would be life,

       And life is over there

       Behind the shelf

       The sexton keeps the key to,

       Putting up

       Our life, his porcelain,

       Like a cup

       Discarded of the housewife,

       Quaint or broken;

       A newer Sevres pleases,

       Old ones crack.

       I could not die with you,

       For one must wait

       To shut the other's gaze down, —

       You could not.

       And I, could I stand by

       And see you freeze,

       Without my right of frost,

       Death's privilege?

       Nor could I rise with you,

       Because your face

       Would put out Jesus',

       That new grace

       Glow plain and foreign

       On my homesick eye,

       Except that you, than he

       Shone closer by.

       They'd judge us — how?

       For you served Heaven, you know,

       Or sought to;

       I could not,

       Because you saturated sight,

       And I had no more eyes

       For sordid excellence

       As Paradise.

       And were you lost, I would be,

       Though my name

       Rang loudest

       On the heavenly fame.

       And were you saved,

       And I condemned to be

       Where you were not,

       That self were hell to me.

       So we must keep apart,

       You there, I here,

       With just the door ajar

       That oceans are,

       And prayer,

       And that pale sustenance,

       Despair!

      XIII.

       RENUNCIATION.