Emily Dickinson: Все стихи поэта | Poetree

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I felt a cleaving in my mind

I felt a cleaving in my mind

I felt a cleaving in my mind

As if my brain had split;

I tried to match it, seam by seam,

But could not make them fit.

The thought behind I strove to join

Unto the thought before,

But sequence ravelled out of reach

Like balls upon a floor.

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Emily Dickinson

As imperceptibly as grief

As imperceptibly as grief

As imperceptibly as grief

The summer lapsed away, —

Too imperceptible, at last,

To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled,

As twilight long begun,

Or Nature, spending with herself

Sequestered afternoon.

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Emily Dickinson

The wind begun to rock the grass

The wind begun to rock the grass

The Wind begun to rock the GrassWith threatening Tunes and low --He threw a Menace at the Earth --A Menace at the Sky.The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees --And started all abroadThe Dust did scoop itself like HandsAnd threw away the Road.The Wagons quickened on the StreetsThe Thunder hurried slow --The Lightning showed a Yellow BeakAnd then a livid Claw.The Birds put up the Bars to Nests --The Cattle fled to Barns --There came one drop of Giant RainAnd then as if the HandsThat held the Dams had parted holdThe Waters Wrecked the Sky,But overlooked my Father's House --Just quartering a Tree --

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Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the fall,

If you were coming in the fall,

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,

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Emily Dickinson

When One has given up One's life

When One has given up One's life

853

When One has given up One's life

The parting with the rest

Feels easy, as when Day lets go

Entirely the West

The Peaks, that lingered last

Remain in Her regret

As scarcely as the Iodine

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Emily Dickinson

A narrow fellow in the grass

A narrow fellow in the grass

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him,—did you not,

His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen;

And then it closes at your feet

And opens further on.

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Emily Dickinson

Safe in their alabaster chambers,

Safe in their alabaster chambers,

Safe 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 cadences, —

Ah, what sagacity perished here!

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Emily Dickinson

'Twas warm — at first — like Us

'Twas warm — at first — like Us

519

'Twas warm — at first — like Us —

Until there crept upon

A Chill — like frost upon a Glass —

Till all the scene — be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone —

The Fingers grew too cold

To ache — and like a Skater's Brook —

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Emily Dickinson

The Railway Train

The Railway Train

I like to see it lap the miles,

And lick the valleys up,

And stop to feed itself at tanks;

And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,

And, supercilious, peer

In shanties by the sides of roads;

And then a quarry pare

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Emily Dickinson

I died for Beauty — but was scarce

I died for Beauty — but was scarce

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 — Themself are One —

We Brethren, are", He said —

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Emily Dickinson

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A travelling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How some one treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.

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Emily Dickinson

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

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'Tis not that Dying hurts us so —

'Tis Living — hurts us more —

But Dying — is a different way —

A Kind behind the Door —

The Southern Custom — of the Bird —

That ere the Frosts are due —

Accepts a better Latitude —

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Emily Dickinson