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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
I had been hungry, all the Years -
My Noon had Come - to dine -
I trembling drew the Table near -
And touched the Curious Wine -
'Twas this on Tables I had seen -
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope - for Mine -

I did not know the ample Bread -
'Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature's - Dining Room -

The Plenty hurt me - 'twas so new -
Myself felt ill - and odd -
As Berry - of a Mountain Bush -
Transplanted - to a Road -

Nor was I hungry - so I found
That Hunger - was a way
Of persons Outside Windows -
The entering - takes away.
Emily Dickinson
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    If I may have it, when it's dead,
    I'll be contented - so -
    If just as soon as Breath is out
    It shall belong to me -
    Until they lock it in the Grave,
    'Tis Bliss I cannot weigh -
    For tho' they lock Thee in the Grave,
    Myself - can own the key -

    Think of it Lover! I and Thee
    Permitted - face to face to be -
    After a Life - a Death - We'll say -
    For Death was That -
    And This - is Thee -

    I'll tell Thee All - how Bald it grew -
    How Midnight felt, at first - to me -
    How all the Clocks stopped in the World -
    And Sunshine pinched me - 'Twas so cold -

    Then how the Grief got sleepy - some -
    As if my Soul were deaf and dumb -
    Just making signs - it seemed - to Thee -
    That this way - thou could'st notice me -

    I'll tell you how I tried to keep
    A smile, to show you, when this Deep
    All Waded - We look back for Play,
    At those Old Times - in Calvary,

    Forgive me, if the Grave come slow -
    For eagerness to look at Thee -
    Forgive me, if to stroke thy frost
    Outvisions Paradise!
    Emily Dickinson
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      I prayed, at first, a little Girl,
      Because they told me to -
      But stopped, when qualified to guess
      How prayer would feel - to me -
      If I believed God looked around,
      Each time my Childish eye
      Fixed full, and steady, on his own
      In Childish honesty -

      And told him what I'd like, today,
      And parts of his far plan
      That baffled me -
      The mingled side
      Of his Divinity -

      And often since, in Danger,
      I count the force 'twould be
      To have a God so strong as that
      To hold my life for me

      Till I could Catch my Balance
      That slips so easy, now,
      It takes me all the while to poise -
      And then - it does'nt stay -.
      Emily Dickinson
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        "Heaven" has different Signs - to me -
        Sometimes, I think that Noon
        Is but a symbol of the Place -
        And when again, at Dawn,
        A mighty look runs round the World
        And settles in the Hills -
        An Awe if it should be like that
        Upon the Ignorance steals -

        The Orchard, when the Sun is on -
        The Triumph of the Birds
        When they together Victory make -
        Some Carnivals of Clouds -

        The Rapture of a finished Day
        Returning to the West -
        All these - remind us of the place
        That Men call "Paradise" -

        Itself be fairer - we suppose -
        But how Ourself, shall be
        Adorned, for a Superior Grace -
        Not yet, our eyes can see.
        Emily Dickinson
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          My first well Day - since many ill -
          I asked to go abroad,
          And take the Sunshine in my hands
          And see the things in Pod -
          A'blossom just - when I went in
          To take my Chance with pain -
          Uncertain if myself, or He,
          Should prove the strongest One.

          The Summer deepened, while we strove -
          She put some flowers away -
          And Redder cheeked Ones - in their stead -
          A fond - illusive way -

          To cheat Herself, it seemed she tried -
          As if before a Child
          To fade - Tomorrow - Rainbows held
          The Sepulchre, could hide.

          She dealt a fashion to the Nut -
          She tied the Hoods to Seeds -
          She dropped bright scraps of Tint, about -
          And left Brazilian Threads

          On every shoulder that she met -
          Then both her Hands of Haze
          Put up - to hide her parting Grace
          From our unfitted eyes.

          My loss, by sickness - Was it Loss?
          Or that Ethereal Gain
          One earns by measuring the Grave -
          Then - measuring the Sun.
          Emily Dickinson
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            Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
            I reckon - When I count it all -
            First - Poets - Then the Sun -
            Then Summer - Then the Heaven of God -
            And then - the List is done -
            But, looking back - the First so seems
            To Comprehend the Whole -
            The Others look a needless Show -
            So I write - Poets - All -

            Their Summer - lasts a Solid Year -
            They can afford a Sun
            The East - would deem extravagant -
            And if the Other Heaven -

            Be Beautiful as they Disclose
            To Those who worship Them -
            It is too difficult a Grace -
            To justify the Dream.
            Emily Dickinson
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