Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete. Эмили ДикинсонЧитать онлайн книгу.

      I died for beauty, but was scarce

      Adjusted in the tomb,

      When one who died for truth was lain

      In 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.

      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 fingers

      Never 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!

      I 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 feign

      The beads upon the forehead

      By homely anguish strung.

      That short, potential stir

      That each can make but once,

      That bustle so illustrious

      'T is almost consequence,

      Is the eclat of death.

      Oh, thou unknown renown

      That not a beggar would accept,

      Had he the power to spurn!

      I 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 sea

      To look upon her like, alive,

      But turning back 't was slow.

      I've seen a dying eye

      Run round and round a room

      In 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.

      The 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!

      I 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 spot

      As if the chart were given.

      God permits industrious angels

      Afternoons to play.

      I met one, – forgot my school-mates,

      All, for him, straightway.

      God calls home the angels promptly

      At the setting sun;

      I missed mine. How dreary marbles,

      After playing Crown!

      To know just how he suffered would be dear;

      To know if any human eyes were near

      To 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 say

      At news that he ceased human nature

      On such a day?

      And wishes, had he any?

      Just his sigh, accented,

      Had been legible to me.

      And was he confident until

      Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

      And if he spoke, what name was best,

      What first,

      What one broke off with

      At the drowsiest?

      Was he afraid, or tranquil?

      Might he know

      How conscious consciousness could grow,

      Till love that was, and love too blest to be,

      Meet – and the junction be Eternity?

      The last night that she lived,

      It was a common night,

      Except the dying; this to us

      Made nature different.

      We noticed smallest things, —

      Things overlooked before,

      By this great light upon our minds

      Italicized, as 't were.

      That others could exist

      While she must finish quite,

      A jealousy for her arose

      So nearly infinite.

      We