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

made the gables laugh.

      A few went out to help the brook,

      That went to help the sea.

      Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,

      What necklaces could be!

      The dust replaced in hoisted roads,

      The birds jocoser sung;

      The sunshine threw his hat away,

      The orchards spangles hung.

      The breezes brought dejected lutes,

      And bathed them in the glee;

      The East put out a single flag,

      And signed the fete away.

XIIPSALM OF THE DAY

      A something in a summer's day,

      As slow her flambeaux burn away,

      Which solemnizes me.

      A something in a summer's noon, —

      An azure depth, a wordless tune,

      Transcending ecstasy.

      And still within a summer's night

      A something so transporting bright,

      I clap my hands to see;

      Then veil my too inspecting face,

      Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace

      Flutter too far for me.

      The wizard-fingers never rest,

      The purple brook within the breast

      Still chafes its narrow bed;

      Still rears the East her amber flag,

      Guides still the sun along the crag

      His caravan of red,

      Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,

      But never deemed the dripping prize

      Awaited their low brows;

      Or bees, that thought the summer's name

      Some rumor of delirium

      No summer could for them;

      Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred

      By tropic hint, – some travelled bird

      Imported to the wood;

      Or wind's bright signal to the ear,

      Making that homely and severe,

      Contented, known, before

      The heaven unexpected came,

      To lives that thought their worshipping

      A too presumptuous psalm.

XIIITHE SEA OF SUNSET

      This is the land the sunset washes,

      These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;

      Where it rose, or whither it rushes,

      These are the western mystery!

      Night after night her purple traffic

      Strews the landing with opal bales;

      Merchantmen poise upon horizons,

      Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

XIVPURPLE CLOVER

      There is a flower that bees prefer,

      And butterflies desire;

      To gain the purple democrat

      The humming-birds aspire.

      And whatsoever insect pass,

      A honey bears away

      Proportioned to his several dearth

      And her capacity.

      Her face is rounder than the moon,

      And ruddier than the gown

      Of orchis in the pasture,

      Or rhododendron worn.

      She doth not wait for June;

      Before the world is green

      Her sturdy little countenance

      Against the wind is seen,

      Contending with the grass,

      Near kinsman to herself,

      For privilege of sod and sun,

      Sweet litigants for life.

      And when the hills are full,

      And newer fashions blow,

      Doth not retract a single spice

      For pang of jealousy.

      Her public is the noon,

      Her providence the sun,

      Her progress by the bee proclaimed

      In sovereign, swerveless tune.

      The bravest of the host,

      Surrendering the last,

      Nor even of defeat aware

      When cancelled by the frost.

XVTHE BEE

      Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

      I hear the level bee:

      A jar across the flowers goes,

      Their velvet masonry

      Withstands until the sweet assault

      Their chivalry consumes,

      While he, victorious, tilts away

      To vanquish other blooms.

      His feet are shod with gauze,

      His helmet is of gold;

      His breast, a single onyx

      With chrysoprase, inlaid.

      His labor is a chant,

      His idleness a tune;

      Oh, for a bee's experience

      Of clovers and of noon!

XVI

      Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

      Indicative that suns go down;

      The notice to the startled grass

      That darkness is about to pass.

XVII

      As children bid the guest good-night,

      And then reluctant turn,

      My flowers raise their pretty lips,

      Then put their nightgowns on.

      As children caper when they wake,

      Merry that it is morn,

      My flowers from a hundred cribs

      Will peep, and prance again.

XVIII

      Angels in the early morning

      May be seen the dews among,

      Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:

      Do the buds to them belong?

      Angels when the sun is hottest

      May be seen the sands among,

      Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;

      Parched the flowers they bear along.

XIX

      So bashful when I spied her,

      So pretty, so ashamed!

      So hidden in her leaflets,

      Lest