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)
Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her - "pleiad" - in the woods And bore her safe away - Robins, in the tradition Did cover such with leaves, But which the cheek - And which the pall My scrutiny deceives.
We should not mind so small a flower - Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again. So spicy her Carnations nod - So drunken, reel her Bees - So silver steal a hundred flutes From out a hundred trees -
That whose sees this little flower By faith may clear behold The Bobolinks around the throne And Dandelions gold.
Our lives are Swiss - So still - so Cool - Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on! Italy stands the other side! While like a guard between - The solemn Alps - The siren Alps Forever intervene!
Going to Heaven! I dont know when - Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I'm too astonished To think of answering you! Going to Heaven! How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at night Unto the Shepherd's arm! Perhaps you're going too! Who knows? If you sh'd get there first Save just a little space for me Close to the two I lost - The smallest "Robe" will fit me And just a bit of "Crown" - For you know we do not mind our dress When we are going home -
I'm glad I dont believe it For it w'd stop my breath - And I'd like to look a little more At such a curious Earth! I am glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the mighty autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.
A poor - torn heart - a tattered heart - That sat it down to rest - Nor noticed that the ebbing Day Flowed silver to the west - Nor noticed Night did soft descend - Nor Constellation burn - Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown. The angels - happening that way This dusty heart espied - Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God - There - sandals for the Barefoot - There - gathered from the gales - Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering Sails.
Never hear the word "Escape" Without a quicker blood! A sudden expectation! A flying attitude! I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down - But I tug, childish, at my bars Only to fail again!
Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses - past the headlands, Into deep Eternity - Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land.
She died at play - Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turk Upon a Couch of flowers - Her ghost strolled softly over the hill - Yesterday, and Today - Her vestments as the silver fleece - Her countenance as spray.
Lady red - amid the Hill Her annual secret keeps! A Lady white, within the Field In placid Lily sleeps! The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms - Sweep vale - and hill - and tree! Prithee, My pretty Housewives! Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect! The Woods exchange a smile! Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird - In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands! How nonchalant the Hedge! As if the "Resurrection" Were nothing very strange.
Glowing is her Bonnet - Glowing is her Cheek - Glowing is her Kirtle - Yet she cannot speak. Better as the Daisy From the Summer hill Vanish unrecorded Save by tearful rill -
Save by loving sunrise Looking for her face. Save by feet unnumbered Pausing at the place.