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Poesie di Emily Dickinson

Poetessa, nato venerdì 10 dicembre 1830 a Amherst, Massachusetts (Stati Uniti d'America), morto sabato 15 maggio 1886 a Amherst, Massachusetts (Stati Uniti d'America)
Questo autore lo trovi anche in Frasi & Aforismi e in Proverbi.

Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze -
A few incisive mornings -
A few Ascetic eves -
Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" -
And Mr Thomson's "sheaves."

Still, is the bustle in the Brook -
Sealed are the spicy valves -
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves -

Perhaps a squirrel may remain -
My sentiments to share -
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind -
Thy windy will to bea
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    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 resume
    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 thro' 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 take
    And thine immortal wine!
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      Bring me the sunset in a cup -
      Reckon the morning's flagons up
      And say how many Dew -
      Tell me how far the morning leaps -
      Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
      Who spun the breadths of blue!
      Write me how many notes there be
      In the new Robin's extasy
      Among astonished boughs -
      How many trips the Tortoise makes -
      How many cups the Bee partakes,
      The Debauchee of Dews!

      Also, who laid the Rainbow's piers,
      Also, who leads the docile spheres
      By withes of supple blue?
      Whose fingers string the stalactite -
      Who counts the wampum of the night
      To see that none is due?

      Who built this little Alban House
      And shut the windows down so close
      My spirit cannot see?
      Who'll let me out some gala day
      With implements to fly away,
      Passing Pomposity?
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