Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete. Эмили Дикинсон

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      New feet within my garden go,

      New fingers stir the sod;

      A troubadour upon the elm

      Betrays the solitude.

      New children play upon the green,

      New weary sleep below;

      And still the pensive spring returns,

      And still the punctual snow!

      Pink, small, and punctual,

      Aromatic, low,

      Covert in April,

      Candid in May,

      Dear to the moss,

      Known by the knoll,

      Next to the robin

      In every human soul.

      Bold little beauty,

      Bedecked with thee,

      Nature forswears

      Antiquity.

      The murmur of a bee

      A witchcraft yieldeth me.

      If any ask me why,

      'T were easier to die

      Than tell.

      The red upon the hill

      Taketh away my will;

      If anybody sneer,

      Take care, for God is here,

      That's all.

      The breaking of the day

      Addeth to my degree;

      If any ask me how,

      Artist, who drew me so,

      Must tell!

      Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?

      But I could never sell.

      If you would like to borrow

      Until the daffodil

      Unties her yellow bonnet

      Beneath the village door,

      Until the bees, from clover rows

      Their hock and sherry draw,

      Why, I will lend until just then,

      But not an hour more!

      The pedigree of honey

      Does not concern the bee;

      A clover, any time, to him

      Is aristocracy.

      Some keep the Sabbath going to church;

      I keep it staying at home,

      With a bobolink for a chorister,

      And an orchard for a dome.

      Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;

      I just wear my wings,

      And instead of tolling the bell for church,

      Our little sexton sings.

      God preaches, – a noted clergyman, —

      And the sermon is never long;

      So instead of getting to heaven at last,

      I'm going all along!

      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?

      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?

      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!

      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.

      A drop fell on the apple tree,

      Another on the roof;

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