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

sleeping there.

      Day rattles, too,

      Stealth's slow;

      The sun has got as far

      As the third sycamore.

      Screams chanticleer,

      "Who's there?"

      And echoes, trains away,

      Sneer – "Where?"

      While the old couple, just astir,

      Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI

      To fight aloud is very brave,

      But gallanter, I know,

      Who charge within the bosom,

      The cavalry of woe.

      Who win, and nations do not see,

      Who fall, and none observe,

      Whose dying eyes no country

      Regards with patriot love.

      We trust, in plumed procession,

      For such the angels go,

      Rank after rank, with even feet

      And uniforms of snow.

XVIIDAWN

      When night is almost done,

      And sunrise grows so near

      That we can touch the spaces,

      It 's time to smooth the hair

      And get the dimples ready,

      And wonder we could care

      For that old faded midnight

      That frightened but an hour.

XVIIITHE BOOK OF MARTYRS

      Read, sweet, how others strove,

      Till we are stouter;

      What they renounced,

      Till we are less afraid;

      How many times they bore

      The faithful witness,

      Till we are helped,

      As if a kingdom cared!

      Read then of faith

      That shone above the fagot;

      Clear strains of hymn

      The river could not drown;

      Brave names of men

      And celestial women,

      Passed out of record

      Into renown!

XIXTHE MYSTERY OF PAIN

      Pain has an element of blank;

      It cannot recollect

      When it began, or if there were

      A day when it was not.

      It has no future but itself,

      Its infinite realms contain

      Its past, enlightened to perceive

      New periods of pain.

XX

      I taste a liquor never brewed,

      From tankards scooped in pearl;

      Not all the vats upon the Rhine

      Yield such an alcohol!

      Inebriate of air am I,

      And debauchee of dew,

      Reeling, through endless summer days,

      From inns of molten blue.

      When landlords turn the drunken bee

      Out of the foxglove's door,

      When butterflies renounce their drams,

      I shall but drink the more!

      Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,

      And saints to windows run,

      To see the little tippler

      Leaning against the sun!

XXIA BOOK

      He ate and drank the precious words,

      His spirit grew robust;

      He knew no more that he was poor,

      Nor that his frame was dust.

      He danced along the dingy days,

      And this bequest of wings

      Was but a book. What liberty

      A loosened spirit brings!

XXII

      I had no time to hate, because

      The grave would hinder me,

      And life was not so ample I

      Could finish enmity.

      Nor had I time to love; but since

      Some industry must be,

      The little toil of love, I thought,

      Was large enough for me.

XXIIIUNRETURNING

      'T was such a little, little boat

      That toddled down the bay!

      'T was such a gallant, gallant sea

      That beckoned it away!

      'T was such a greedy, greedy wave

      That licked it from the coast;

      Nor ever guessed the stately sails

      My little craft was lost!

XXIV

      Whether my bark went down at sea,

      Whether she met with gales,

      Whether to isles enchanted

      She bent her docile sails;

      By what mystic mooring

      She is held to-day, —

      This is the errand of the eye

      Out upon the bay.

XXV

      Belshazzar had a letter, —

      He never had but one;

      Belshazzar's correspondent

      Concluded and begun

      In that immortal copy

      The conscience of us all

      Can read without its glasses

      On revelation's wall.

XXVI

      The brain within its groove

      Runs evenly and true;

      But let a splinter swerve,

      'T were easier for you

      To put the water back

      When floods have slit the hills,

      And scooped a turnpike for themselves,

      And blotted out the mills!

II. LOVEIMINE

      Mine by the right of the white election!

      Mine by the royal seal!

      Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison

      Bars cannot conceal!

      Mine, here in vision and in veto!

      Mine, by the grave's repeal

      Titled, confirmed, – delirious charter!

      Mine, while the ages steal!

IIBEQUEST

      You left me, sweet, two legacies, —

      A