口号英文Emily Dickinson的短诗

2021年1月20日发(作者：中性装)
Emily Dickinson
’
s poetry

1
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My 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 seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible.
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries but each

Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.



2
Bustle In A House
~
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth.

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.




3

4

5
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.



For gentlemen who
see
,
But
Microscopes
are prudent
In an emergency!


’T is so much joy! ’T is so much joy!

If I should fail, what poverty!

And yet, as poor as I

Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so

This side the victory!


Life is but life, and death but death!



6
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 thing

Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o’erwhelm me so!

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 'twas 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.


7
Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar


8



9
Requires sorest need.


Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day

Can tell the definition,

So clear, of victory,


As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Break, agonized and clear

IF 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 robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Much madness is divinest sense

To a discerning eye;

Much sense the starkest madness.

’T i
s the majority

In this, as all, prevails.

Assent, and you are sane;

Demur,
—you ’re straightway dangerous,

And handled with a chain.


10
A 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 redder
Just where the hectic stings!


Mirth is the mail of anguish,

In which it caution arm,

Lest anybody spy the blood

And Youre hurt exclaim!

11
A PRECIOUS, mould
eringpleasure ’t is

To 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 make

o times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,

His knowledge to unfold

On what concerns our mutual mind,

The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,

What competitions ran

When Plato was a certainty,

And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore

The gown that Dante deified.

Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,

As one should come to town

And tell you all your dreams were true:

He lived where dreams were born.


His presence is enchantment,

You beg him not to go;

Old volumes shake their vellum heads

And tantalize, just so.


12
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
- Emily Dickinson

13
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!


14

15
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.
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,

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!
Reeling, through endless summer days,



Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,

And saints to windows run,

To see the little tippler

Leaning against the sun!


16
Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!

Who never climbed the weary league
—

Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro's shore?

How many Legions overcome
—

The Emperor will say?
How many
Colors
taken
On Revolution Day?

How many
Bullets
bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write
On this Soldier's brow!

17
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door --
Red -- is the Fire's common tint --
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color
, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs -- within --
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer
, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light