Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete. Эмили Дикинсон

waited while she passed;

      It was a narrow time,

      Too jostled were our souls to speak,

      At length the notice came.

      She mentioned, and forgot;

      Then lightly as a reed

      Bent to the water, shivered scarce,

      Consented, and was dead.

      And we, we placed the hair,

      And drew the head erect;

      And then an awful leisure was,

      Our faith to regulate.

XXITHE FIRST LESSON

      Not in this world to see his face

      Sounds long, until I read the place

      Where this is said to be

      But just the primer to a life

      Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,

      Clasped yet to him and me.

      And yet, my primer suits me so

      I would not choose a book to know

      Than that, be sweeter wise;

      Might some one else so learned be,

      And leave me just my A B C,

      Himself could have the skies.

XXII

      The bustle in a house

      The morning after death

      Is solemnest of industries

      Enacted upon earth, —

      The sweeping up the heart,

      And putting love away

      We shall not want to use again

      Until eternity.

XXIII

      I reason, earth is short,

      And anguish absolute,

      And many hurt;

      But what of that?

      I reason, we could die:

      The best vitality

      Cannot excel decay;

      But what of that?

      I reason that in heaven

      Somehow, it will be even,

      Some new equation given;

      But what of that?

XXIV

      Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?

      Not death; for who is he?

      The porter of my father's lodge

      As much abasheth me.

      Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing

      That comprehendeth me

      In one or more existences

      At Deity's decree.

      Of resurrection? Is the east

      Afraid to trust the morn

      With her fastidious forehead?

      As soon impeach my crown!

XXVDYING

      The sun kept setting, setting still;

      No hue of afternoon

      Upon the village I perceived, —

      From house to house 't was noon.

      The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;

      No dew upon the grass,

      But only on my forehead stopped,

      And wandered in my face.

      My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,

      My fingers were awake;

      Yet why so little sound myself

      Unto my seeming make?

      How well I knew the light before!

      I could not see it now.

      'T is dying, I am doing; but

      I'm not afraid to know.

XXVI

      Two swimmers wrestled on the spar

      Until the morning sun,

      When one turned smiling to the land.

      O God, the other one!

      The stray ships passing spied a face

      Upon the waters borne,

      With eyes in death still begging raised,

      And hands beseeching thrown.

XXVIITHE CHARIOT

      Because I could not stop for Death,

      He kindly stopped for me;

      The carriage held but just ourselves

      And Immortality.

      We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

      And I had put away

      My labor, and my leisure too,

      For his civility.

      We passed the school where children played,

      Their lessons scarcely done;

      We passed the fields of gazing grain,

      We passed the setting sun.

      We paused before a house that seemed

      A swelling of the ground;

      The roof was scarcely visible,

      The cornice but a mound.

      Since then 't is centuries; but each

      Feels shorter than the day

      I first surmised the horses' heads

      Were toward eternity.

XXVIII

      She went as quiet as the dew

      From a familiar flower.

      Not like the dew did she return

      At the accustomed hour!

      She dropt as softly as a star

      From out my summer's eve;

      Less skilful than Leverrier

      It's sorer to believe!

XXIXRESURGAM

      At last to be identified!

      At last, the lamps upon thy side,

      The rest of life to see!

      Past midnight, past the morning star!

      Past sunrise! Ah! what leagues there are

      Between our feet and day!

XXX

      Except to heaven, she is nought;

      Except for angels, lone;

      Except to some wide-wandering bee,

      A flower superfluous blown;

      Except for winds, provincial;

      Except by butterflies,

      Unnoticed as a single dew

      That on the acre lies.

      The smallest housewife in the grass,

      Yet take her from the lawn,

      And somebody has lost the face

      That made existence home!

XXXI

      Death is a dialogue between

      The spirit and the dust.

      "Dissolve,"