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
If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls -
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse -

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.

If certain, when this life was out -
That your's and mine, should be -
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity -

But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee -
That will not state - it's sting.
Emily Dickinson
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    It was not Death, for I stood up,
    And all the Dead, lie down -
    It was not Night, for all the Bells
    Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
    It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
    I felt Siroccos - crawl -
    Nor Fire - for just my Marble feet
    Could keep a Chancel, cool -

    And yet, it tasted, like them all,
    The Figures I have seen
    Set orderly, for Burial,
    Reminded me, of mine -

    As if my life were shaven,
    And fitted to a frame,
    And could not breathe without a key,
    And 'twas like Midnight, some -

    When everything that ticked - has stopped -
    And Space stares all around -
    Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns,
    Repeal the Beating Ground -

    But, most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool -
    Without a Chance, or Spar -
    Or even a Report of Land -
    To justify - Despair.
    Emily Dickinson
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      If Anybody's friend be dead
      It's sharpest of the theme
      The thinking how they walked alive -
      At such and such a time -
      Their costume, of a Sunday,
      Some manner of the Hair -
      A prank nobody knew but them
      Lost, in the Sepulchre -

      How warm, they were, on such a day,
      You almost feel the date -
      So short way off it seems -
      And now - they're Centuries from that -

      How pleased they were, at what you said!
      You try to touch the smile
      And dip your fingers in the frost -
      When was it - Can you tell -

      You asked the Company to tea -
      Acquaintance - just a few -
      And chatted close with this Grand Thing
      That dont remember you -

      Past Bows, and Invitations -
      Past Interview, and Vow -
      Past what Ourself can estimate -
      That - makes the Quick of Woe.
      Emily Dickinson
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        I'm ceded - I've stopped being Their's -
        The name They dropped upon my face
        With water, in the country church
        Is finished using, now,
        And They can put it with my Dolls,
        My childhood, and the string of spools,
        I've finished threading - too -
        Baptized, before, without the choice,
        But this time, consciously, of Grace -
        Unto supremest name -
        Called to my Full - The Crescent dropped -
        Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
        With one - small Diadem -

        My second Rank - too small the first -
        Crowned - whimpering - on my Father's breast -
        A too unconscious Queen -
        But this time - Adequate - Erect,
        With power to choose,
        Or to reject,
        And I choose, just a Crown.
        Emily Dickinson
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          She sights a Bird - she chuckles -
          She flattens - then she crawls -
          She runs without the look of feet -
          Her eyes increase to Balls -
          Her Mouth stirs - longing - hungry -
          Her Teeth can hardly stand -
          She leaps, but Robin leaped the first -
          Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,

          The Hopes so juicy ripening -
          You almost bathed your Tongue -
          When Bliss disclosed a hundred Wings -
          And fled with every one.
          Emily Dickinson
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