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)
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid - As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God - The deepest hid is sighted first And scant to Him the Crowd - What triple Lenses burn upon The Escapade from God.
Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstance - 'Tis well the name and age Are writ upon the Door Or I should fear to pause Where not so much as Honest Dog Approach encourages -
It seems a Curious Town - Some Houses very old, Some - newly raised this Afternoon, Were I compelled to build
It should not be among Inhabitants so still But where the Birds assemble And Boys were possible
Before Myself was born 'Twas settled, so they say, A Territory for the Ghosts And Squirrels, formerly.
Until a Pioneer, as Settlers often do Liking the quiet of the Place Attracted more unto -
And from a Settlement A Capitol has grown Distinguished for the gravity Of every Citizen -
The Owner of this House A Stranger He must be - Eternity's Acquaintances Are mostly so - to me.
To my quick ear the Leaves - conferred - The Bushes - they were Bells - I could not find a Privacy From Nature's sentinels - In Cave if I presumed to hide The Walls - begun to tell - Creation seemed a mighty Crack - To make me visible.
From Us She wandered now, a Year - Her tarrying, unknown. If Wilderness prevent Her feet - Or that Ethereal Zone No Man hath seen and lived - We ignorant must be - We only know what time of Year We felt the Mystery.
Crisis is a Hair Toward which forces creep Past which - forces retrograde If it come in sleep To suspend the Breath Is the most we can Ignorant is it Life or Death Nicely balancing -
Let an instant push Or an Atom press Or a Circle hesitate In Circumference
It may jolt the Hand That adjusts the Hair That secures Eternity From presenting - Here.
When I have seen the Sun emerge From His amazing House - And leave a Day at every Door A Deed, in every place - Without the incident of Fame Or accident of Noise - The Earth has seemed to me a Drum, Pursued of little Boys.
These tested Our Horizon - Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude. Our Retrospection of Them A fixed Delight, But Our Anticipation A Dice - a Doubt.
Our little Kinsmen - after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon. A needless life, it seemed to me Until a little Bird As to a Hospitality Advanced and breakfasted -
As I of He, so God of Me I pondered, may have judged, And left the little Angle Worm With Modesties enlarged.