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)
A something in a summer's Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer's noon - A depth - an Azure - a perfume - Transcending extasy.
And still within a summer's night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see -
Then vail 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 it's narrow bed -
Still rears the East her amber Flag - Guides still the sun along the Crag His Caravan of Red -
So looking on - the night - the morn Conclude the wonder gay - And I meet, coming thro' the dews Another summer's Day!
As Watchers hang upon the East - As Beggars revel at a feast By savory fancy spread - As Brooks in Deserts, babble sweet On Ear too far for the delight - Heaven beguiles the tired. As that same Watcher, when the East Opens the lid of Amethyst And lets the morning go - That Beggar, when an honored Guest - Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed - Heaven to us, if true.
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!
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!
As Children bid the Guest "Good Night" And then reluctant turn - My flowers raise their pretty lips - Then put their nightgowns on. As children caper when they wake - Merry that it is Morn - My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again
I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink; Crackling with fever, they essay, I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass - The lips I w'd have cooled, alas - Are so superfluous cold -
I w'd as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould -
Some other thirsty there may be To whom this w'd have pointed me Had it remained to speak -
And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake -
If, haply, any say to me "Unto the little, unto me," When I at last awake -
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
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!
Cocoon above! Cocoon below! Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so What all the world suspect? An hour, and gay on every tree Your secret, perched in extasy Defies imprisonment! An hour in chrysalis to pass - Then gay above receding grass A Butterfly to go! A moment to interrogate, Then wiser than a "Surrogate," The Universe to know
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?