The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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. LOVE.

      I.

       MINE.

       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!

      II.

       BEQUEST.

       You left me, sweet, two legacies, —

       A legacy of love

       A Heavenly Father would content,

       Had He the offer of;

       You left me boundaries of pain

       Capacious as the sea,

       Between eternity and time,

       Your consciousness and me.

      III.

       Alter? When the hills do.

       Falter? When the sun

       Question if his glory

       Be the perfect one.

       Surfeit? When the daffodil

       Doth of the dew:

       Even as herself, O friend!

       I will of you!

      IV.

       SUSPENSE.

       Elysium is as far as to

       The very nearest room,

       If in that room a friend await

       Felicity or doom.

       What fortitude the soul contains,

       That it can so endure

       The accent of a coming foot,

       The opening of a door!

      V.

       SURRENDER.

       Doubt me, my dim companion!

       Why, God would be content

       With but a fraction of the love

       Poured thee without a stint.

       The whole of me, forever,

       What more the woman can, —

       Say quick, that I may dower thee

       With last delight I own!

       It cannot be my spirit,

       For that was thine before;

       I ceded all of dust I knew, —

       What opulence the more

       Had I, a humble maiden,

       Whose farthest of degree

       Was that she might,

       Some distant heaven,

       Dwell timidly with thee!

      VI.

       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,

       Until their time befalls.

       If only centuries delayed,

       I'd count them on my hand,

       Subtracting till my fingers dropped

       Into Van Diemen's land.

       If certain, when this life was out,

       That yours and mine should be,

       I'd toss it yonder like a rind,

       And taste eternity.

       But now, all ignorant of the length

       Of time's uncertain wing,

       It goads me, like the goblin bee,

       That will not state its sting.

      VII.

       WITH A FLOWER.

       I hide myself within my flower,

       That wearing on your breast,

       You, unsuspecting, wear me too —

       And angels know the rest.

       I hide myself within my flower,

       That, fading from your vase,

       You, unsuspecting, feel for me

       Almost a loneliness.

      VIII.

       PROOF.

       That I did always love,

       I bring thee proof:

       That till I loved

       I did not love enough.

       That I shall love alway,

       I offer thee

       That love is life,

       And life hath immortality.

       This, dost thou doubt, sweet?

       Then have I

       Nothing to show

       But Calvary.

      IX.

       Have you got a brook in your little heart,

       Where bashful flowers blow,

       And blushing birds go down to drink,

       And shadows tremble so?

       And nobody knows, so still it flows,

       That any brook is there;

       And yet your little draught of life

       Is daily drunken there.

       Then look out for the little brook in March,

       When the rivers overflow,

       And the snows come hurrying from the hills,

       And the bridges often go.

       And later, in August it may be,

       When the meadows parching lie,

       Beware, lest this little brook of life

       Some burning noon go dry!

      X.

       TRANSPLANTED.

       As if some little Arctic flower,

       Upon the polar hem,

       Went wandering down the latitudes,

       Until it puzzled came

       To continents of summer,

       To firmaments of sun,

       To strange, bright crowds of flowers,

       And birds of foreign tongue!

       I say, as if this little flower

       To Eden wandered in —