The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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СКАЧАТЬ A little road not made of man,

       Enabled of the eye,

       Accessible to thill of bee,

       Or cart of butterfly.

       If town it have, beyond itself,

       'T is that I cannot say;

       I only sigh, — no vehicle

       Bears me along that way.

      XI.

       SUMMER SHOWER.

       A drop fell on the apple tree,

       Another on the roof;

       A half a dozen kissed the eaves,

       And made the gables laugh.

       A few went out to help the brook,

       That went to help the sea.

       Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,

       What necklaces could be!

       The dust replaced in hoisted roads,

       The birds jocoser sung;

       The sunshine threw his hat away,

       The orchards spangles hung.

       The breezes brought dejected lutes,

       And bathed them in the glee;

       The East put out a single flag,

       And signed the fete away.

      XII.

       PSALM OF THE DAY.

       A something in a summer's day,

       As slow her flambeaux burn away,

       Which solemnizes me.

       A something in a summer's noon, —

       An azure depth, a wordless tune,

       Transcending ecstasy.

       And still within a summer's night

       A something so transporting bright,

       I clap my hands to see;

       Then veil my too inspecting face,

       Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace

       Flutter too far for me.

       The wizard-fingers never rest,

       The purple brook within the breast

       Still chafes its narrow bed;

       Still rears the East her amber flag,

       Guides still the sun along the crag

       His caravan of red,

       Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,

       But never deemed the dripping prize

       Awaited their low brows;

       Or bees, that thought the summer's name

       Some rumor of delirium

       No summer could for them;

       Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred

       By tropic hint, — some travelled bird

       Imported to the wood;

       Or wind's bright signal to the ear,

       Making that homely and severe,

       Contented, known, before

       The heaven unexpected came,

       To lives that thought their worshipping

       A too presumptuous psalm.

      XIII.

       THE SEA OF SUNSET.

       This is the land the sunset washes,

       These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;

       Where it rose, or whither it rushes,

       These are the western mystery!

       Night after night her purple traffic

       Strews the landing with opal bales;

       Merchantmen poise upon horizons,

       Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

      XIV.

       PURPLE CLOVER.

       There is a flower that bees prefer,

       And butterflies desire;

       To gain the purple democrat

       The humming-birds aspire.

       And whatsoever insect pass,

       A honey bears away

       Proportioned to his several dearth

       And her capacity.

       Her face is rounder than the moon,

       And ruddier than the gown

       Of orchis in the pasture,

       Or rhododendron worn.

       She doth not wait for June;

       Before the world is green

       Her sturdy little countenance

       Against the wind is seen,

       Contending with the grass,

       Near kinsman to herself,

       For privilege of sod and sun,

       Sweet litigants for life.

       And when the hills are full,

       And newer fashions blow,

       Doth not retract a single spice

       For pang of jealousy.

       Her public is the noon,

       Her providence the sun,

       Her progress by the bee proclaimed

       In sovereign, swerveless tune.

       The bravest of the host,

       Surrendering the last,

       Nor even of defeat aware

       When cancelled by the frost.

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