Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete

Name: Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete
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Author: Эмили Дикинсон

Эмили Дикинсон

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зарубежная поэзия,зарубежная классика,зарубежная старинная литература,стихи и поэзия,литература 19 века,серьезное чтение,cтихи, поэзия

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PREFACE

The verses of Emily Dickinson belong emphatically to what Emerson long since called "the Poetry of the Portfolio,"—something produced absolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way of expression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitably forfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticism and the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, it may often gain something through the habit of freedom and the unconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of the present author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; she must write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit, literally spending years without setting her foot beyond the doorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictly limited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind, like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was with great difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during her lifetime, three or four poems. Yet she wrote verses in great abundance; and though brought curiously indifferent to all conventional rules, had yet a rigorous literary standard of her own, and often altered a word many times to suit an ear which had its own tenacious fastidiousness.

Miss Dickinson was born in Amherst, Mass., Dec. 10, 1830, and died there May 15, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward Dickinson, was the leading lawyer of Amherst, and was treasurer of the well-known college there situated. It was his custom once a year to hold a large reception at his house, attended by all the families connected with the institution and by the leading people of the town. On these occasions his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement and did her part as gracious hostess; nor would any one have known from her manner, I have been told, that this was not a daily occurrence. The annual occasion once past, she withdrew again into her seclusion, and except for a very few friends was as invisible to the world as if she had dwelt in a nunnery. For myself, although I had corresponded with her for many years, I saw her but twice face to face, and brought away the impression of something as unique and remote as Undine or Mignon or Thekla.

This selection from her poems is published to meet the desire of her personal friends, and especially of her surviving sister. It is believed that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages a quality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than of anything to be elsewhere found,—flashes of wholly original and profound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibiting an extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yet often set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame. They are here published as they were written, with very few and superficial changes; although it is fair to say that the titles have been assigned, almost invariably, by the editors. In many cases these verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed. In other cases, as in the few poems of shipwreck or of mental conflict, we can only wonder at the gift of vivid imagination by which this recluse woman can delineate, by a few touches, the very crises of physical or mental struggle. And sometimes again we catch glimpses of a lyric strain, sustained perhaps but for a line or two at a time, and making the reader regret its sudden cessation. But the main quality of these poems is that of extraordinary grasp and insight, uttered with an uneven vigor sometimes exasperating, seemingly wayward, but really unsought and inevitable. After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence. As Ruskin wrote in his earlier and better days, "No weight nor mass nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought."

—Thomas Wentworth HigginsonThis is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, —The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.Her message is committed To hands I cannot see;For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me!I. LIFEISUCCESS[Published in "A Masque of Poets"at the request of "H.H.," the author'sfellow-townswoman and friend.]Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victory,As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBreak, agonized and clear!IIOur share of night to bear,Our share of morning,Our blank in bliss to fill,Our blank in scorning.Here a star, and there a star,Some lose their way.Here a mist, and there a mist,Afterwards – day!IIIROUGE ET NOIRSoul, wilt thou toss again?By just such a hazardHundreds have lost, indeed,But tens have won an all.Angels' breathless ballotLingers to record thee;Imps in eager caucusRaffle for my soul.IVROUGE GAGNE'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!If I should fail, what poverty!And yet, as poor as IHave ventured all upon a throw;Have gained! Yes! Hesitated soThis side the victory!Life is but life, and death but death!Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!And if, indeed, I fail,At least to know the worst is sweet.Defeat means nothing but defeat,No drearier can prevail!And if I gain, – oh, gun at sea,Oh, bells that in the steeples be,At first repeat it slow!For heaven is a different thingConjectured, and waked sudden in,And might o'erwhelm me so!VGlee! The great storm is over!Four have recovered the land;Forty gone down togetherInto the boiling sand.Ring, for the scant salvation!Toll, for the bonnie souls, —Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,Spinning upon the shoals!How they will tell the shipwreckWhen winter shakes the door,Till the children ask, "But the forty?Did they come back no more?"Then a silence suffuses the story,And a softness the teller's eye;And the children no further question,And only the waves reply.VIIf I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.VIIALMOST!Within my reach!I could have touched!I might have chanced that way!Soft sauntered through the village,Sauntered as soft away!So unsuspected violetsWithin the fields lie low,Too late for striving fingersThat passed, an hour ago.VIIIA wounded deer leaps highest,I've heard the hunter tell;'T is but the ecstasy of death,And then the brake is still.The smitten rock that gushes,The trampled steel that springs;A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings!Mirth is the mail of anguish,In which it cautions arm,Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd "You're hurt" exclaim!IXThe heart asks pleasure first,And then, excuse from pain;And then, those little anodynesThat deaden suffering;And then, to go to sleep;And then, if it should beThe will of its Inquisitor,The liberty to die.XIN A LIBRARYA precious, mouldering pleasure 't isTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think,His venerable hand to take,And warming in our own,A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when he was young.His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind,The literature of old;What interested scholars most,What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty.And Sophocles a man;When Sappho was a living girl,And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified.Facts, centuries before,He traverses familiar,As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were true;He lived where dreams were sown.His presence is enchantment,You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize, just so.XIMuch madness is divinest senseTo a discerning eye;Much sense the starkest madness.'T is the majorityIn this, as all, prevails.Assent, and you are sane;Demur, – you're straightway dangerous,And handled with a chain.XIII asked no other thing,No other was denied.I offered Being for it;The mighty merchant smiled.Brazil? He twirled a button,Without a glance my way:"But, madam, is there nothing elseThat we can show to-day?"XIIIEXCLUSIONThe soul selects her own society,Then shuts the door;On her divine majorityObtrude no more.Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausingAt her low gate;Unmoved, an emperor is kneelingUpon her mat.I've known her from an ample nationChoose one;Then close the valves of her attentionLike stone.XIVTHE SECRETSome things that fly there be, —Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:Of these no elegy.Some things that stay there be, —Grief, hills, eternity:Nor this behooveth me.There are, that resting, rise.Can I expound the skies?How still the riddle lies!XVTHE LONELY HOUSEI know some lonely houses off the roadA robber 'd like the look of, —Wooden barred,And windows hanging low,Inviting toA portico,Where two could creep:One hand the tools,The other peepTo make sure all's asleep.Old-fashioned eyes,Not easy to surprise!How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,With just a clock, —But they could gag the tick,And mice won't bark;And so the walls don't tell,None will.A pair of spectacles ajar just stir —An almanac's aware.Was it the mat winked,Or a nervous star?The moon slides down the stairTo see who's there.There's plunder, – where?Tankard, or spoon,Earring, or stone,A watch, some ancient broochTo match the grandmamma,Staid sleeping there.Day rattles, too,Stealth's slow;The sun has got as farAs 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!XVITo 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 countryRegards with patriot love.We trust, in plumed procession,For such the angels go,Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow.XVIIDAWNWhen night is almost done,And sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the spaces,It 's time to smooth the hairAnd get the dimples ready,And wonder we could careFor that old faded midnightThat frightened but an hour.XVIIITHE BOOK OF MARTYRSRead, sweet, how others strove,Till we are stouter;What they renounced,Till we are less afraid;How many times they boreThe faithful witness,Till we are helped,As if a kingdom cared!Read then of faithThat shone above the fagot;Clear strains of hymnThe river could not drown;Brave names of menAnd celestial women,Passed out of recordInto renown!XIXTHE MYSTERY OF PAINPain has an element of blank;It cannot recollectWhen it began, or if there wereA day when it was not.It has no future but itself,Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain.XXI taste a liquor never brewed,From tankards scooped in pearl;Not all the vats upon the RhineYield 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 beeOut 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 tipplerLeaning against the sun!XXIA BOOKHe 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 wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!XXIII had no time to hate, becauseThe grave would hinder me,And life was not so ample ICould finish enmity.Nor had I time to love; but sinceSome industry must be,The little toil of love, I thought,Was large enough for me.XXIIIUNRETURNING'T was such a little, little boatThat toddled down the bay!'T was such a gallant, gallant seaThat beckoned it away!'T was such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the coast;Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!XXIVWhether my bark went down at sea,Whether she met with gales,Whether to isles enchantedShe bent her docile sails;By what mystic mooringShe is held to-day, —This is the errand of the eyeOut upon the bay.XXVBelshazzar had a letter, —He never had but one;Belshazzar's correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation's wall.XXVIThe brain within its grooveRuns evenly and true;But let a splinter swerve,'T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!II. LOVEIMINEMine by the right of the white election!Mine by the royal seal!Mine by the sign in the scarlet prisonBars cannot conceal!Mine, here in vision and in veto!Mine, by the grave's repealTitled, confirmed, – delirious charter!Mine, while the ages steal!IIBEQUESTYou left me, sweet, two legacies, —A legacy of loveA Heavenly Father would content,Had He the offer of;You left me boundaries of painCapacious as the sea,Between eternity and time,Your consciousness and me.IIIAlter? When the hills do.Falter? When the sunQuestion if his gloryBe the perfect one.Surfeit? When the daffodilDoth of the dew:Even as herself, O friend!I will of you!IVSUSPENSEElysium is as far as toThe very nearest room,If in that room a friend awaitFelicity or doom.What fortitude the soul contains,That it can so endureThe accent of a coming foot,The opening of a door!VSURRENDERDoubt me, my dim companion!Why, God would be contentWith but a fraction of the lovePoured thee without a stint.The whole of me, forever,What more the woman can, —Say quick, that I may dower theeWith last delight I own!It cannot be my spirit,For that was thine before;I ceded all of dust I knew, —What opulence the moreHad I, a humble maiden,Whose farthest of degreeWas that she might,Some distant heaven,Dwell timidly with thee!VIIf you were coming in the fall,I'd brush the summer byWith 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 droppedInto 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 lengthOf time's uncertain wing,It goads me, like the goblin bee,That will not state its sting.VIIWITH A FLOWERI 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 meAlmost a loneliness.VIIIPROOFThat I did always love,I bring thee proof:That till I lovedI did not love enough.That I shall love alway,I offer theeThat love is life,And life hath immortality.This, dost thou doubt, sweet?Then have INothing to showBut Calvary.IXHave 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 lifeIs 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 lifeSome burning noon go dry!XTRANSPLANTEDAs if some little Arctic flower,Upon the polar hem,Went wandering down the latitudes,Until it puzzled cameTo continents of summer,To firmaments of sun,To strange, bright crowds of flowers,And birds of foreign tongue!I say, as if this little flowerTo Eden wandered in —What then? Why, nothing, only,Your inference therefrom!XITHE OUTLETMy river runs to thee:Blue sea, wilt welcome me?My river waits reply.Oh sea, look graciously!I'll fetch thee brooksFrom spotted nooks, —Say, sea,Take me!XIIIN VAINI cannot live with you,It would be life,And life is over thereBehind the shelfThe sexton keeps the key to,Putting upOur life, his porcelain,Like a cupDiscarded of the housewife,Quaint or broken;A newer Sevres pleases,Old ones crack.I could not die with you,For one must waitTo shut the other's gaze down, —You could not.And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze,Without my right of frost,Death's privilege?Nor could I rise with you,Because your faceWould put out Jesus',That new graceGlow plain and foreignOn my homesick eye,Except that you, than heShone closer by.They'd judge us – how?For you served Heaven, you know,Or sought to;I could not,Because you saturated sight,And I had no more eyesFor sordid excellenceAs Paradise.And were you lost, I would be,Though my nameRang loudestOn the heavenly fame.And were you saved,And I condemned to beWhere you were not,That self were hell to me.So we must keep apart,You there, I here,With just the door ajarThat oceans are,And prayer,And that pale sustenance,Despair!XIIIRENUNCIATION

There came a day at summer's fullEntirely for me;I thought that such were for the saints,Where revelations be.The sun, as common, went abroad,The flowers, accustomed, blew,As if no soul the solstice passedThat maketh all things new.The time was scarce profaned by speech;The symbol of a wordWas needless, as at sacramentThe wardrobe of our Lord.Each was to each the sealed church,Permitted to commune this time,Lest we too awkward showAt supper of the Lamb.The hours slid fast, as hours will,Clutched tight by greedy hands;So faces on two decks look back,Bound to opposing lands.And so, when all the time had failed,Without external sound,Each bound the other's crucifix,We gave no other bond.Sufficient troth that we shall rise —Deposed, at length, the grave —To that new marriage, justifiedThrough Calvaries of Love!XIVLOVE'S BAPTISMI'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs;The name they dropped upon my faceWith water, in the country church,Is finished using now,And they can put it with my dolls,My childhood, and the string of spoolsI've finished threading too.Baptized before without the choice,But this time consciously, of graceUnto supremest name,Called to my full, the crescent dropped,Existence's whole arc filled upWith one small diadem.My second rank, too small the first,Crowned, crowing on my father's breast,A half unconscious queen;But this time, adequate, erect,With will to choose or to reject.And I choose – just a throne.XVRESURRECTION'T was a long parting, but the timeFor interview had come;Before the judgment-seat of God,The last and second timeThese fleshless lovers met,A heaven in a gaze,A heaven of heavens, the privilegeOf one another's eyes.No lifetime set on them,Apparelled as the newUnborn, except they had beheld,Born everlasting now.Was bridal e'er like this?A paradise, the host,And cherubim and seraphimThe most familiar guest.XVIAPOCALYPSEI'm wife; I've finished that,That other state;I'm Czar, I'm woman now:It's safer so.How odd the girl's life looksBehind this soft eclipse!I think that earth seems soTo those in heaven now.This being comfort, thenThat other kind was pain;But why compare?I'm wife! stop there!XVIITHE WIFEShe rose to his requirement, droppedThe playthings of her lifeTo take the honorable workOf woman and of wife.If aught she missed in her new dayOf amplitude, or awe,Or first prospective, or the goldIn using wore away,It lay unmentioned, as the seaDevelops pearl and weed,But only to himself is knownThe fathoms they abide.XVIIIAPOTHEOSISCome slowly, Eden!Lips unused to thee,Bashful, sip thy jasmines,As the fainting bee,Reaching late his flower,Round her chamber hums,Counts his nectars – enters,And is lost in balms!III. NATUREINew feet within my garden go,New fingers stir the sod;A troubadour upon the elmBetrays the solitude.New children play upon the green,New weary sleep below;And still the pensive spring returns,And still the punctual snow!IIMAY-FLOWERPink, small, and punctual,Aromatic, low,Covert in April,Candid in May,Dear to the moss,Known by the knoll,Next to the robinIn every human soul.Bold little beauty,Bedecked with thee,Nature forswearsAntiquity.IIIWHY?The murmur of a beeA witchcraft yieldeth me.If any ask me why,'T were easier to dieThan tell.The red upon the hillTaketh away my will;If anybody sneer,Take care, for God is here,That's all.The breaking of the dayAddeth to my degree;If any ask me how,Artist, who drew me so,Must tell!IVPerhaps you'd like to buy a flower?But I could never sell.If you would like to borrowUntil the daffodilUnties her yellow bonnetBeneath the village door,Until the bees, from clover rowsTheir hock and sherry draw,Why, I will lend until just then,But not an hour more!VThe pedigree of honeyDoes not concern the bee;A clover, any time, to himIs aristocracy.VIA SERVICE OF SONGSome keep the Sabbath going to church;I keep it staying at home,With a bobolink for a chorister,And an orchard for a dome.Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;I just wear my wings,And instead of tolling the bell for church,Our little sexton sings.God preaches, – a noted clergyman, —And the sermon is never long;So instead of getting to heaven at last,I'm going all along!VIIThe bee is not afraid of me,I know the butterfly;The pretty people in the woodsReceive me cordially.The brooks laugh louder when I come,The breezes madder play.Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?Wherefore, O summer's day?VIIISUMMER'S ARMIESSome rainbow coming from the fair!Some vision of the world CashmereI confidently see!Or else a peacock's purple train,Feather by feather, on the plainFritters itself away!The dreamy butterflies bestir,Lethargic pools resume the whirOf last year's sundered tune.From some old fortress on the sunBaronial bees march, one by one,In murmuring platoon!The robins stand as thick to-dayAs flakes of snow stood yesterday,On fence and roof and twig.The orchis binds her feather onFor her old lover, Don the Sun,Revisiting the bog!Without commander, countless, still,The regiment of wood and hillIn bright detachment stand.Behold! Whose multitudes are these?The children of whose turbaned seas,Or what Circassian land?IXTHE GRASSThe grass so little has to do, —A sphere of simple green,With only butterflies to brood,And bees to entertain,And stir all day to pretty tunesThe breezes fetch along,And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything;And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself so fine, —A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing.And even when it dies, to passIn odors so divine,As lowly spices gone to sleep,Or amulets of pine.And then to dwell in sovereign barns,And dream the days away, —The grass so little has to do,I wish I were the hay!XA little road not made of man,Enabled of the eye,Accessible to thill of bee,Or cart of butterfly.If town it have, beyond itself,'T is that I cannot say;I only sigh, – no vehicleBears me along that way.XISUMMER SHOWERA drop fell on the apple tree,Another on the roof;A half a dozen kissed the eaves,And 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 DAYA 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 nightA something so transporting bright,I clap my hands to see;Then veil my too inspecting face,Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for me.The wizard-fingers never rest,The purple brook within the breastStill chafes its narrow bed;Still rears the East her amber flag,Guides still the sun along the cragHis caravan of red,Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their low brows;Or bees, that thought the summer's nameSome rumor of deliriumNo summer could for them;Or Arctic creature, dimly stirredBy tropic hint, – some travelled birdImported to the wood;Or wind's bright signal to the ear,Making that homely and severe,Contented, known, beforeThe heaven unexpected came,To lives that thought their worshippingA too presumptuous psalm.XIIITHE SEA OF SUNSETThis 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 trafficStrews the landing with opal bales;Merchantmen poise upon horizons,Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.XIVPURPLE CLOVERThere is a flower that bees prefer,And butterflies desire;To gain the purple democratThe humming-birds aspire.And whatsoever insect pass,A honey bears awayProportioned to his several dearthAnd her capacity.Her face is rounder than the moon,And ruddier than the gownOf orchis in the pasture,Or rhododendron worn.She doth not wait for June;Before the world is greenHer sturdy little countenanceAgainst 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 spiceFor pang of jealousy.Her public is the noon,Her providence the sun,Her progress by the bee proclaimedIn sovereign, swerveless tune.The bravest of the host,Surrendering the last,Nor even of defeat awareWhen cancelled by the frost.XVTHE BEELike trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonryWithstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms.His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid.His labor is a chant,His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee's experienceOf clovers and of noon!XVIPresentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass.XVIIAs 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 cribsWill peep, and prance again.XVIIIAngels in the early morningMay be seen the dews among,Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:Do the buds to them belong?Angels when the sun is hottestMay be seen the sands among,Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;Parched the flowers they bear along.XIXSo bashful when I spied her,So pretty, so ashamed!So hidden in her leaflets,Lest anybody find;So breathless till I passed her,So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her, struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond!For whom I robbed the dingle,For whom betrayed the dell,Many will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!XXTWO WORLDSIt makes no difference abroad,The seasons fit the same,The mornings blossom into noons,And split their pods of flame.Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,The brooks brag all the day;No blackbird bates his jargoningFor passing Calvary.Auto-da-fe and judgmentAre nothing to the bee;His separation from his roseTo him seems misery.XXITHE MOUNTAINThe mountain sat upon the plainIn his eternal chair,His observation omnifold,His inquest everywhere.The seasons prayed around his knees,Like children round a sire:Grandfather of the days is he,Of dawn the ancestor.XXIIA DAYI'll tell you how the sun rose, —A ribbon at a time.The steeples swam in amethyst,The news like squirrels ran.The hills untied their bonnets,The bobolinks begun.Then I said softly to myself,"That must have been the sun!"* * *But how he set, I know not.There seemed a purple stileWhich little yellow boys and girlsWere climbing all the whileTill when they reached the other side,A dominie in grayPut gently up the evening bars,And led the flock away.XXIIIThe butterfly's assumption-gown,In chrysoprase apartments hung, This afternoon put on.How condescending to descend,And be of buttercups the friend In a New England town!XXIVTHE WINDOf all the sounds despatched abroad,There's not a charge to meLike that old measure in the boughs,That phraseless melodyThe wind does, working like a handWhose fingers brush the sky,Then quiver down, with tufts of tunePermitted gods and me.When winds go round and round in bands,And thrum upon the door,And birds take places overhead,To bear them orchestra,I crave him grace, of summer boughs,If such an outcast be,He never heard that fleshless chantRise solemn in the tree,As if some caravan of soundOn deserts, in the sky,Had broken rank,Then knit, and passedIn seamless company.XXVDEATH AND LIFEApparently with no surpriseTo any happy flower,The frost beheads it at its playIn accidental power.The blond assassin passes on,The sun proceeds unmovedTo measure off another dayFor an approving God.XXVI'T was later when the summer wentThan when the cricket came,And yet we knew that gentle clockMeant nought but going home.'T was sooner when the cricket wentThan when the winter came,Yet that pathetic pendulumKeeps esoteric time.XXVIIINDIAN SUMMERThese are the days when birds come back,A very few, a bird or two,To take a backward look.These are the days when skies put onThe old, old sophistries of June, —A blue and gold mistake.Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,Almost thy plausibilityInduces my belief,Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,And softly through the altered airHurries a timid leaf!Oh, sacrament of summer days,Oh, last communion in the haze,Permit a child to join,Thy sacred emblems to partake,Thy consecrated bread to break,Taste thine immortal wine!XXVIIIAUTUMNThe morns are meeker than they were,The nuts are getting brown;The berry's cheek is plumper,The rose is out of town.The maple wears a gayer scarf,The field a scarlet gown.Lest I should be old-fashioned,I'll put a trinket on.XXIXBECLOUDEDThe sky is low, the clouds are mean,A travelling flake of snowAcross a barn or through a rutDebates if it will go.A narrow wind complains all dayHow some one treated him;Nature, like us, is sometimes caughtWithout her diadem.XXXTHE HEMLOCKI think the hemlock likes to standUpon a marge of snow;It suits his own austerity,And satisfies an aweThat men must slake in wilderness,Or in the desert cloy, —An instinct for the hoar, the bald,Lapland's necessity.The hemlock's nature thrives on cold;The gnash of northern windsIs sweetest nutriment to him,His best Norwegian wines.To satin races he is nought;But children on the DonBeneath his tabernacles play,And Dnieper wrestlers run.XXXIThere's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.Heavenly hurt it gives us;We can find no scar,But internal differenceWhere the meanings are.None may teach it anything,' T is the seal, despair, —An imperial afflictionSent us of the air.When it comes, the landscape listens,Shadows hold their breath;When it goes, 't is like the distanceOn the look of death.IV. TIME AND ETERNITYIOne dignity delays for all,One mitred afternoon.None can avoid this purple,None evade this crown.Coach it insures, and footmen,Chamber and state and throng;Bells, also, in the village,As we ride grand along.What dignified attendants,What service when we pause!How loyally at partingTheir hundred hats they raise!How pomp surpassing ermine,When simple you and IPresent our meek escutcheon,And claim the rank to die!IITOO LATEDelayed till she had ceased to know,Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay.An hour behind the fleeting breath,Later by just an hour than death, — Oh, lagging yesterday!Could she have guessed that it would be;Could but a crier of the glee Have climbed the distant hill;Had not the bliss so slow a pace, —Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still?Oh, if there may departing beAny forgot by victory In her imperial round,Show them this meek apparelled thing,That could not stop to be a king, Doubtful if it be crowned!IIIASTRA CASTRADeparted to the judgment,A mighty afternoon;Great clouds like ushers leaning,Creation looking on.The flesh surrendered, cancelled,The bodiless begun;Two worlds, like audiences, disperseAnd leave the soul alone.IVSafe in their alabaster chambers,Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence, —Ah, what sagacity perished here!Grand go the years in the crescent above them;Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,Diadems drop and Doges surrender,Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.VOn this long storm the rainbow rose,On this late morn the sun;The clouds, like listless elephants,Horizons straggled down.The birds rose smiling in their nests,The gales indeed were done;Alas! how heedless were the eyesOn whom the summer shone!The quiet nonchalance of deathNo daybreak can bestir;The slow archangel's syllablesMust awaken her.VIFROM THE CHRYSALISMy cocoon tightens, colors tease,I'm feeling for the air;A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear.A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly,Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky.So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign,And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine.VIISETTING SAILExultation is the goingOf an inland soul to sea, —Past the houses, past the headlands,Into deep eternity!Bred as we, among the mountains,Can the sailor understandThe divine intoxicationOf the first league out from land?VIIILook back on time with kindly eyes,He doubtless did his best;How softly sinks his trembling sunIn human nature's west!IXA train went through a burial gate,A bird broke forth and sang,And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;And then adjusted his little notes,And bowed and sang again.Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men.XI died for beauty, but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb,When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room.He questioned softly why I failed?"For beauty," I replied."And I for truth, – the two are one;We brethren are," he said.And so, as kinsmen met a night,We talked between the rooms,Until the moss had reached our lips,And covered up our names.XI"TROUBLED ABOUT MANY THINGS."How many times these low feet staggered,Only the soldered mouth can tell;Try! can you stir the awful rivet?Try! can you lift the hasps of steel?Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often,Lift, if you can, the listless hair;Handle the adamantine fingersNever a thimble more shall wear.Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window;Brave shines the sun through the freckled pane;Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling —Indolent housewife, in daisies lain!XIIREALI like a look of agony,Because I know it 's true;Men do not sham convulsion,Nor simulate a throe.The eyes glaze once, and that is death.Impossible to feignThe beads upon the foreheadBy homely anguish strung.XIIITHE FUNERALThat short, potential stirThat each can make but once,That bustle so illustrious'T is almost consequence,Is the eclat of death.Oh, thou unknown renownThat not a beggar would accept,Had he the power to spurn!XIVI went to thank her,But she slept;Her bed a funnelled stone,With nosegays at the head and foot,That travellers had thrown,Who went to thank her;But she slept.'T was short to cross the seaTo look upon her like, alive,But turning back 't was slow.XVI've seen a dying eyeRun round and round a roomIn search of something, as it seemed,Then cloudier become;And then, obscure with fog,And then be soldered down,Without disclosing what it be,'T were blessed to have seen.XVIREFUGEThe clouds their backs together laid,The north begun to push,The forests galloped till they fell,The lightning skipped like mice;The thunder crumbled like a stuff —How good to be safe in tombs,Where nature's temper cannot reach,Nor vengeance ever comes!XVIII never saw a moor,I never saw the sea;Yet know I how the heather looks,And what a wave must be.I never spoke with God,Nor visited in heaven;Yet certain am I of the spotAs if the chart were given.XVIIIPLAYMATESGod permits industrious angelsAfternoons to play.I met one, – forgot my school-mates,All, for him, straightway.God calls home the angels promptlyAt the setting sun;I missed mine. How dreary marbles,After playing Crown!XIXTo know just how he suffered would be dear;To know if any human eyes were nearTo whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,Until it settled firm on Paradise.To know if he was patient, part content,Was dying as he thought, or different;Was it a pleasant day to die,And did the sunshine face his way?What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,Or what the distant sayAt news that he ceased human natureOn such a day?And wishes, had he any?Just his sigh, accented,Had been legible to me.And was he confident untilIll fluttered out in everlasting well?And if he spoke, what name was best,What first,What one broke off withAt the drowsiest?Was he afraid, or tranquil?Might he knowHow conscious consciousness could grow,Till love that was, and love too blest to be,Meet – and the junction be Eternity?XXThe last night that she lived,It was a common night,Except the dying; this to usMade nature different.We noticed smallest things, —Things overlooked before,By this great light upon our mindsItalicized, as 't were.That others could existWhile she must finish quite,A jealousy for her aroseSo nearly infinite.We 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 reedBent 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 LESSONNot in this world to see his faceSounds long, until I read the placeWhere this is said to beBut just the primer to a lifeUnopened, rare, upon the shelf,Clasped yet to him and me.And yet, my primer suits me soI would not choose a book to knowThan that, be sweeter wise;Might some one else so learned be,And leave me just my A B C,Himself could have the skies.XXIIThe bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth, —The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity.XXIIII reason, earth is short,And anguish absolute,And many hurt;But what of that?I reason, we could die:The best vitalityCannot excel decay;But what of that?I reason that in heavenSomehow, it will be even,Some new equation given;But what of that?XXIVAfraid? Of whom am I afraid?Not death; for who is he?The porter of my father's lodgeAs much abasheth me.Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thingThat comprehendeth meIn one or more existencesAt Deity's decree.Of resurrection? Is the eastAfraid to trust the mornWith her fastidious forehead?As soon impeach my crown!XXVDYINGThe sun kept setting, setting still;No hue of afternoonUpon 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 myselfUnto my seeming make?How well I knew the light before!I could not see it now.'T is dying, I am doing; butI'm not afraid to know.XXVITwo swimmers wrestled on the sparUntil the morning sun,When one turned smiling to the land.O God, the other one!The stray ships passing spied a faceUpon the waters borne,With eyes in death still begging raised,And hands beseeching thrown.XXVIITHE CHARIOTBecause I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy 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 seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was scarcely visible,The cornice but a mound.Since then 't is centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity.XXVIIIShe went as quiet as the dewFrom a familiar flower.Not like the dew did she returnAt the accustomed hour!She dropt as softly as a starFrom out my summer's eve;Less skilful than LeverrierIt's sorer to believe!XXIXRESURGAMAt 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 areBetween our feet and day!XXXExcept 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 dewThat on the acre lies.The smallest housewife in the grass,Yet take her from the lawn,And somebody has lost the faceThat made existence home!XXXIDeath is a dialogue betweenThe spirit and the dust."Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,I have another trust."Death doubts it, argues from the ground.The Spirit turns away,Just laying off, for evidence,An overcoat of clay.XXXIIIt was too late for man,But early yet for God;Creation impotent to help,But prayer remained our side.How excellent the heaven,When earth cannot be had;How hospitable, then, the faceOf our old neighbor, God!XXXIIIALONG THE POTOMACWhen I was small, a woman died.To-day her only boyWent up from the Potomac,His face all victory,To look at her; how slowlyThe seasons must have turnedTill bullets clipt an angle,And he passed quickly round!If pride shall be in ParadiseI never can decide;Of their imperial conduct,No person testified.But proud in apparition,That woman and her boyPass back and forth before my brain,As ever in the sky.XXXIVThe daisy follows soft the sun,And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet.He, waking, finds the flower near."Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?" "Because, sir, love is sweet!"We are the flower, Thou the sun!Forgive us, if as days decline, We nearer steal to Thee, —Enamoured of the parting west,The peace, the flight, the amethyst, Night's possibility!XXXVEMANCIPATIONNo rack can torture me,My soul's at libertyBehind this mortal boneThere knits a bolder oneYou cannot prick with saw,Nor rend with scymitar.Two bodies therefore be;Bind one, and one will flee.The eagle of his nestNo easier divestAnd gain the sky,Than mayest thou,Except thyself may beThine enemy;Captivity is consciousness,So's liberty.XXXVILOSTI lost a world the other day.Has anybody found?You'll know it by the row of starsAround its forehead bound.A rich man might not notice it;Yet to my frugal eyeOf more esteem than ducats.Oh, find it, sir, for me!XXXVIIIf I shouldn't be aliveWhen the robins come,Give the one in red cravatA memorial crumb.If I couldn't thank you,Being just asleep,You will know I'm tryingWith my granite lip!XXXVIIISleep is supposed to be,By souls of sanity,The shutting of the eye.Sleep is the station grandDown which on either handThe hosts of witness stand!Morn is supposed to be,By people of degree,The breaking of the day.Morning has not occurred!That shall aurora beEast of eternity;One with the banner gay,One in the red array, —That is the break of day.XXXIXI shall know why, when time is over,And I have ceased to wonder why;Christ will explain each separate anguishIn the fair schoolroom of the sky.He will tell me what Peter promised,And I, for wonder at his woe,I shall forget the drop of anguishThat scalds me now, that scalds me now.XLI never lost as much but twice,And that was in the sod;Twice have I stood a beggarBefore the door of God!Angels, twice descending,Reimbursed my store.Burglar, banker, father,I am poor once more!

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