It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,--
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.
Stichwörter: poetry
Is Bliss then, such Abyss,
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?
I'd rather suit my foot
Than save my Boot --
For yet to buy another Pair
is possible,
At any store --
But Bliss, is sold just once.
The Patent lost
None buy it any more --
Stichwörter: poetry
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes;
I wonder if It weighs like Mine,
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the Date of Mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if They have to try,
And whether, could They choose between,
It would not be, to die.
I note that Some --
gone patient long --
At length, renew their smile.
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil.
I wonder if when Years have piled,
Some Thousands -- on the Harm
Of early hurt -- if such a lapse
Could give them any Balm;
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger Pain
By Contrast with the Love.
The Grieved are many,
I am told;
The reason deeper lies, --
Death is but one
and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There's Grief of Want
and Grief of Cold, --
A sort they call "Despair";
There's Banishment from native Eyes,
In sight of Native Air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the Cross,
And how they're mostly worn,
Still fascinated to presume
That Some are like My Own.
Stichwörter: poetry
Mine Enemy is growing old --
I have at last Revenge --
The Palate of the Hate departs --
If any would avenge
Let him be quick -- the Viand flits --
It is a faded Meat --
Anger as soon as fed is dead --
'Tis starving makes it fat
Stichwörter: friendship poetry relationships rivalry
Unto my Books-so good to turn-
Far ends of tired Days-
It half endears the Abstinence-
And Pain-is missed-in Praise-
As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests
With Banquettings to be-
So Spices-stimulate the time
Till my small Library-
It may be Wilderness-without-
Far feet of failing Men-
But Holiday-excludes the night-
And it is Bells-within-
I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor-in Prospective-
And satisfy-obtained-
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
The lovely flowers
embarrass me.
They make me regret
I am not a bee...
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If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.
Emily DickinsonDas Zitat auf Deutsch anzeigen
Das Zitat auf Französisch anzeigen
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I SEE thee better in the dark,
I do not need a light.
The love of thee a prism be
Excelling violet.
I see thee better for the years
That hunch themselves between,
The miner’s lamp sufficient be
To nullify the mine.
And in the grave I see thee best—
Its little panels be
A-glow, all ruddy with the light
I held so high for thee!
What need of day to those whose dark
Hath so surpassing sun,
It seem it be continually
At the meridian?
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
Emily Dickinson« erste vorherige
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