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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
We dream - it is good we are dreaming -
It would hurt us - were we awake -
But since it is playing - kill us,
And we are playing - shriek -
What harm? Men die - externally -
It is a truth - of Blood -
But we - are dying in Drama -
And Drama - is never dead -

Cautious - We jar each other -
And either - open the eyes -
Lest the Phantasm - prove the Mistake -
And the livid Surprise

Cool us to Shafts of Granite -
With just an age - and name -
And perhaps a latin inscription -
It's prudenter - to dream.
Emily Dickinson
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    I'm sorry for the Dead - Today -
    It's such congenial times
    Old neighbors have at fences -
    It's time o'year for Hay,
    And Broad - Sunburned Acquaintance
    Discourse between the Toil -
    And laugh, a homely species
    That makes the Fences smile -

    It seems so straight to lie away
    From all of the noise of Fields -
    The Busy Carts - the fragrant Cocks -
    The Mower's Metre - Steals -

    A Trouble lest they're homesick -
    Those Farmers - and their Wives -
    Set separate from the Farming -
    And all the Neighbor's lives -

    A Wonder if the Sepulchre
    Dont feel a lonesome way -
    When Men - and Boys - and Carts - and June,
    Go down the Fields to "Hay".
    Emily Dickinson
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      To put this World down, like a Bundle -
      And walk steady, away,
      Requires Energy - possibly Agony -
      'Tis the Scarlet way
      Trodden with straight renunciation
      By the Son of God -
      Later, his faint Confederates
      Justify the Road -

      Flavors of that old Crucifixion -
      Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed -
      Strong Clusters, from Barabbas'Tomb -

      Sacrament, Saints partook before us -
      Patent, every drop,
      With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
      Who enforced the Cup.
      Emily Dickinson
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        To hear an Oriole sing
        May be a common thing -
        Or only a divine.
        It is not of the Bird
        Who sings the same, unheard,
        As unto Crowd -

        The Fashion of the Ear
        Attireth that it hear
        In Dun, or fair -

        So whether it be Rune,
        Or whether it be din -
        Is of within.

        The "Tune is in the Tree -"
        The Skeptic - showeth me -
        "No Sir! In Thee!"
        Emily Dickinson
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          I think the Hemlock likes to stand
          Upon a Marge of Snow -
          It suits his own Austerity -
          And satisfies an awe
          That men, must slake in Wilderness -
          And in the Desert - cloy -
          An hunger for the Hoar, the Bald -
          Lapland's - necessity -

          The Hemlock's nature thrives - on cold -
          The Gnash of Northern winds
          Is sweetest nutriment - to him -
          His best Norwegian Wines -

          To satin Races - he is nought -
          But Children on the Don,
          Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
          And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
          Emily Dickinson
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            Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
            Sweet - You forgot - but I remembered
            Every time - for Two -
            So that the Sum be never hindered
            Through Decay of You -
            Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings -
            Blame the little Hand
            Happy it be for You - a Beggar's -
            Seeking More - to spend -

            Just to be Rich - to waste my Guineas
            On so Best a Heart -
            Just to be Poor - for Barefoot Vision
            You - Sweet - Shut me out.
            Emily Dickinson
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