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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
He touched me, so I live to know
That such a day, Accepted so -
I dwelt - upon his breast -
It was a boundless place to me
And silenced, as the awful Sea
Puts minor streams to rest.

And now, I'm different from before,
As if I breathed superior air -
Or brushed a Royal Gown -
My feet, too, that had wandered so -
My Gypsy face - transfigured now -
To tenderer Renown -

Into this Port, if I might come,
Rebecca, to Jerusalem,
Would not so ravished turn -
Nor Persian, baffled at her shrine
Lift such a Crucifixal sign
To her imperial Sun.
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    He touched me, so I live to know
    That such a day, Accepted so -
    I dwelt - upon his breast -
    It was a boundless place to me
    And silenced, as the awful Sea
    Puts minor streams to rest.

    And now, I'm different from before,
    As if I breathed superior air -
    Or brushed a Royal Gown -
    My feet, too, that had wandered so -
    My Gypsy face - transfigured now -
    To tenderer Renown -

    Into this Port, if I might come.
    Vota la poesia: Commenta
      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      Would not paint - a picture -
      I'd rather be the One
      It's bright impossibility
      To dwell - delicious - on -
      And wonder how the fingers feel
      Whose rare - celestial - stir -
      Evokes so sweet a Torment -
      Such sumptuous - Despair -
      I would not talk, like Cornets -
      I'd rather be the One
      Raised softly to Horizons -
      And out, and easy on -
      Through Villages of Ether -
      Myself upborne Balloon
      By but a lip of Metal -
      The pier to my Pontoon -

      Nor would I be a Poet -
      It's finer - own the Ear -
      Enamored - impotent - content -
      The License to revere,
      A privilege so awful
      What would the Dower be,
      Had I the Art to stun myself
      With Bolts - of Melody.
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        Within my Garden, rides a Bird
        Upon a single Wheel -
        Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
        As 'twere a travelling Mill -
        He never stops, but slackens
        Above the Ripest Rose -
        Partakes without alighting
        And praises as he goes,

        Till every spice is tasted -
        And then his Fairy Gig
        Reels in remoter atmospheres -
        And I rejoin my Dog,

        And He and I, perplex us
        If positive, 'twere we -
        Or bore the Garden in the Brain
        This Curiosity -

        But He, the best Logician,
        Refers my clumsy eye -
        To just vibrating Blossoms!
        An Exquisite Reply!
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          Those fair - fictitious People -
          The Women - plucked away
          From our familiar Lifetime -
          The Men of Ivory -
          Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas -
          Who stay upon the Wall
          In Everlasting Keepsake -
          Can Anybody tell?

          We trust - in places perfecter -
          Inheriting Delight
          Beyond our faint Conjecture -
          Our dizzy Estimate -

          Remembering ourselves, we trust -
          Yet Blesseder - than We -
          Through Knowing - where We only hope -
          Receiving - where we - pray -

          Of Expectation - also -
          Anticipating us
          With transport, that would be a pain
          Except for Holiness -

          Esteeming us - as Exile -
          Themself - admitted Home -
          Through gentle Miracle of Death -
          The Way ourself, must come.
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