Poesie di Emily Dickinson

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

Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
Years - had been - from Home -
And now - before the Door -
I dared not open - lest a face
I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine -
And ask my Business there -
My Business - just a Life I left -
Was such - still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve -
I scanned the Windows o'er -
The Silence - like an Ocean rolled -
And broke against my Ear -

I laughed a Wooden laugh -
That I - could fear a Door -
Who Danger - and the Dead - had faced -
But never shook - before -

I fitted to the Latch - My Hand -
With trembling Care
Lest back the Awful Door should spring -
And leave me - in the Floor -

I moved my fingers off, as cautiously as Glass -
And held my Ears - and like a Thief
Stole - gasping - from the House -
Emily Dickinson
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    Paura! Di chi ho paura?
    Non della Morte - perché chi è Costei?
    Il Portiere della casa di mio Padre
    Allo stesso modo m'intimidisce!
    Della Vita? Sarebbe strano ch'io temessi una cosa
    Che è parte integrante di me
    In una o due esistenze -
    A seconda del caso -

    Della Risurrezione? Ha l'Est
    Paura di affidare al Mattino
    La sua fronte schizzinosa?
    Tanto varrebbe ricusare la mia Corona.
    Emily Dickinson
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
      Not Death - for who is He?
      The Porter of my Father's Lodge
      As much abasheth me!
      Of Life? 'Twere odd I fear a thing
      That comprehendeth me
      In one or two existences -
      Just as the case may be -

      Of Resurrection? Is the East
      Afraid to trust the Morn
      With her fastidious forehead?
      As soon impeach my Crown.
      Emily Dickinson
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        Of nearness to her sundered Things
        The Soul has special times -
        When Dimness - looks the Oddity -
        Distinctness - easy - seems -
        The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
        Familiar, in the Rooms -
        Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
        The Mouldering Playmate comes -

        In just the Jacket that he wore -
        Long buttoned in the Mold
        Since we - old mornings, Children - played -
        Divided - by a world -

        The Grave yields back her Robberies -
        The Years, our pilfered Things -
        Bright Knots of Apparitions
        Salute us, with their wings -

        As we - it were - that perished -
        Themself - had just remained till we rejoin them -
        And 'twas they, and not ourself
        That mourned.
        Emily Dickinson
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          The Trees like Tassels - hit - and swung -
          There seemed to rise a Tune
          From Miniature Creatures
          Accompanying the Sun -
          Far Psalteries of Summer -
          Enamoring the Ear
          They never yet did satisfy -
          Remotest - when most fair

          The Sun shone whole at intervals -
          Then Half - then utter hid -
          As if Himself were optional
          And had Estates of Cloud

          Sufficient to enfold Him
          Eternally from view -
          Except it were a whim of His
          To let the Orchards grow -

          A Bird sat careless on the fence -
          One gossipped in the Lane
          On silver matters charmed a Snake
          Just winding round a Stone -

          Bright Flowers slit a Calyx
          And soared upon a Stem
          Like Hindered Flags - Sweet hoisted -
          With Spices - in the Hem -

          'Twas more - I cannot mention -
          How mean - to those that see -
          Vandyke's Delineation
          Of Nature's - Summer Day!
          Emily Dickinson
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            Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
            The Spider holds a Silver Ball
            In unperceived Hands -
            And dancing softly as He knits
            His Coil of Pearl - unwinds -
            He plies from Nought to Nought -
            In unsubstantial Trade -
            Supplants our Tapestries with His -
            In half the period -

            An Hour to rear supreme
            His Theories of Light -
            Then dangle from the Housewife's Broom -
            His Sophistries - forgot.
            Emily Dickinson
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              Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
              Unto my Books - so good to turn -
              Far ends of tired Days -
              It half endears the Abstinence -
              And Pain - is missed - in Praise -
              As Flavors - cheer Retarded Guests
              With Banquettings to be -
              So Spices - stimulate the time
              Till my small Library -

              It may be Wilderness - without -
              Far feet of failing Men -
              But Holiday - excludes the night -
              And it is Bells - within -

              I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf -
              Their Countenances Kid
              Enamor - in Prospective -
              And satisfy - obtained.
              Emily Dickinson
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                Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
                Of Brussels - it was not -
                Of Kidderminster? Nay -
                The Winds did buy it of the Woods -
                Then - sell it unto me
                It was a gentle price -
                The poorest - could afford -
                It was within the frugal purse
                Of Beggar - or of Bird -

                Of small and spicy Breadths -
                In hue - a mellow Dun -
                Of Sunshine - and of Sere - Composed -
                But, principally - of Sun -

                The Wind - unrolled it fast -
                And spread it on the Ground -
                Upholsterer of the Pines - is He -
                Upholsterer - of the Pond.
                Emily Dickinson
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                  Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
                  A still - Volcano - Life -
                  That flickered in the night -
                  When it was dark enough to do
                  Without erasing sight -
                  A quiet - Earthquake Style -
                  Too subtle to suspect
                  By natures this side Naples -
                  The North cannot detect

                  The Solemn - Torrid - Symbol -
                  The lips that never lie -
                  Whose hissing Corals part - and shut -
                  And Cities - ooze away.
                  Emily Dickinson
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