The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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       God preaches, — a noted clergyman, —

       And the sermon is never long;

       So instead of getting to heaven at last,

       I'm going all along!

      VII.

       The bee is not afraid of me,

       I know the butterfly;

       The pretty people in the woods

       Receive me cordially.

       The brooks laugh louder when I come,

       The breezes madder play.

       Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?

       Wherefore, O summer's day?

      VIII.

       SUMMER'S ARMIES.

       Some rainbow coming from the fair!

       Some vision of the world Cashmere

       I confidently see!

       Or else a peacock's purple train,

       Feather by feather, on the plain

       Fritters itself away!

       The dreamy butterflies bestir,

       Lethargic pools resume the whir

       Of last year's sundered tune.

       From some old fortress on the sun

       Baronial bees march, one by one,

       In murmuring platoon!

       The robins stand as thick to-day

       As flakes of snow stood yesterday,

       On fence and roof and twig.

       The orchis binds her feather on

       For her old lover, Don the Sun,

       Revisiting the bog!

       Without commander, countless, still,

       The regiment of wood and hill

       In bright detachment stand.

       Behold! Whose multitudes are these?

       The children of whose turbaned seas,

       Or what Circassian land?

      IX.

       THE GRASS.

       The grass so little has to do, —

       A sphere of simple green,

       With only butterflies to brood,

       And bees to entertain,

       And stir all day to pretty tunes

       The breezes fetch along,

       And hold the sunshine in its lap

       And bow to everything;

       And thread the dews all night, like pearls,

       And make itself so fine, —

       A duchess were too common

       For such a noticing.

       And even when it dies, to pass

       In odors so divine,

       As lowly spices gone to sleep,

       Or amulets of pine.

       And then to dwell in sovereign barns,

       And dream the days away, —

       The grass so little has to do,

       I wish I were the hay!

      X.

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