I have a Bird in spring
Which for myself doth sing -
The spring decoys.
And as the summer nears -
And as the Rose appears,
Robin is gone.
Yet do I not repine
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown -
Learneth beyond the sea
Melody new for me
And will return.
Fast in safer hand
Held in a truer Land
Are min -
And though they now depart,
Tell I my doubting heart
They’re thine.
In a serener Bright,
In a more golden light
I see
Each little doubt and fear,
Each little discord here
Removed.
Then will I not repine,
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown
8
Shall in distant tree
Bright melody for me
Return.
Ho un Uccello a primavera
Che per me sola canta -
La primavera seduce.
E quando l’estate s’avvicina -
E quando la Rosa appare,
Robin se n’è andato.
Pure io non mi dolgo
Sapendo che quell’Uccello mio
Benché volato via -
Impara oltre il mare
Melodia nuova per me
E tornerà.
Salde in mano più sicura
Tenute in una Terra più vera
Sono le mie -
E benché ora partano,
Dico al mio cuore dubbioso
Che sono tue.
In un più sereno Splendore,
In una luce più dorata
Vedo
Ogni piccolo dubbio e timore,
Ogni piccola discordia di qui
Rimossa.
Allora non mi dorrò,
Sapendo che quell’Uccello mio
Benché volato via
8
In un albero lontano
Chiara melodia per me
Riporterà.
Heart, not so heavy as mine
Wending late home —
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune —
A careless snatch — a ballad — A ditty of the street —
Yet to my irritated Ear
An Anodyne so sweet —
It was as if a Bobolink
Sauntering this way
Carolled, and paused, and carolled —
Then bubbled slow away!
It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a dusty way —
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why!
Tomorrow, night will come again —
Perhaps, weary and sore —
Ah Bugle! By my window
I pray you pass once more.
Cuore, non pesante come il mio
Volgendo tardi a casa —
Mentre passava alla mia finestra
Si fischiettava un motivo —
Un frammento distratto — una ballata — Una canzoncina di strada —
Eppure al mio Orecchio irritato
Un Anodino così dolce —
Fu come se un Bobolink
Gironzolando da queste parti
Cantasse, e sostasse, e cantasse —
Poi gorgogliando piano svanisse!
Fu come se un ruscello cinguettante
Su una via polverosa —
Mettesse piedi sanguinanti a minuetti
Senza saperne il perché!
Domani, la notte verrà di nuovo —
Forse, stanca e dolente —
Ah Tromba! Alla mia finestra
Ti prego, passa ancora una volta.
For every Bird a Nest —
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round —
Wherefore when boughs are free —
Households in every tree —
Pilgrim be found?
Perhaps a home too high —
Ah Aristocracy!
The little Wren desires —
Perhaps of twig so fine —
Of twine e’en superfine,
Her pride aspires —
The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house —
Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?
Per ogni Uccello un Nido —
Per cui in timida ricerca
Un piccolo Scricciolo va cercando intorno —
Per cui quando i rami sono liberi —
Famiglie in ogni albero —
Si trovi un pellegrino?
Forse una casa troppo alta —
Ah Aristocrazia!
Il piccolo Scricciolo desidera —
Forse a ramoscello così fine —
A spago fin sopraffine,
Il suo orgoglio aspira —
L’Allodola non si vergogna
Di costruire sulla terra
La sua modesta casa —
Eppure chi di tutta la folla
Danzante attorno al sole
Gioisce altrettanto?
Musicians wrestle everywhere —
All day — among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife —
And — waking — long before the morn —
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “New Life”!
If is not Bird — it has no nest —
Nor “Band” — in brass and scarlet — drest —
Nor Tamborin — nor Man —
It is not Hymn from pulpit read —
The “Morning Stars” the Treble led
On Time’s first Afternoon!
Some — say — it is “the Spheres” — at play!
Some say that bright Majority
Of vanished Dames — and Men!
Some — think it service in the place
Where we — with late — celestial face —
Please God — shall Ascertain!
Musicisti lottano ovunque —
Tutto il giorno — nell’aria affollata
Odo la contesa d’argento —
E — sveglia — molto prima del mattino —
Tale rapimento irrompe sulla città
Che penso sia quella “Nuova Vita”!
Se non è Uccello — non ha nido —
Né “Banda” — in ottone e scarlatto — vestita —
Né Tamburello — né Uomo —
Non è Inno letto dal pulpito —
Le “Stelle del Mattino” guidarono il Soprano
Nel primo Pomeriggio del Tempo!
Alcuni — dicono — sono “le Sfere” — in gioco!
Alcuni dicono la splendente Maggioranza
Di Dame svanite — e Uomini!
Alcuni — la credono funzione nel luogo
Dove noi — con tardo — celestiale volto —
Piaccia a Dio — l’Accerteremo!
A feather from the Whippoorwill
That everlasting — sings!
Whose galleries — are Sunrise —
Whose Opera — the Springs —
Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
Of mellow — murmuring thread —
Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys hunt
In “Recess” — Overhead!
Una piuma del Caprimulgo
Che eterno — canta!
Le cui gallerie — sono Aurora —
La cui Opera — le Primavere —
Il cui Nido di Smeraldo filano le Ere
Di morbido — mormorante filo —
Il cui Uovo di Berillo, cacciano gli Scolari
In “Ricreazione” — Lassù!
I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometimes
In a Cathedral Aisle,
And understood no word it said —
Yet held my breath, the while —
And risen up — and gone away,
A more Bernardine Girl —
Yet — know not what was done to me
In that old Chapel Aisle.
Ho udito un Organo parlare, a volte
In una Navata di Cattedrale,
E non capivo parola che dicesse —
Pure trattenni il respiro, intanto —
E mi levai — e me ne andai,
Fanciulla più Bernardina —
Eppure — non so cosa mi fu fatto
In quella vecchia Navata di Cappella.
A Bird came down the Walk —
He did not know I saw —
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass —
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass —
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around —
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought —
He stirred his Velvet Head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home —
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam —
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, splashless as they swim.
Un Uccello scese lungo il Sentiero —
Non sapeva che lo vedessi —
Spezzò in due metà un Lombrico
E se lo mangiò, crudo,
E poi bevve una Rugiada
Da un’Erba lì opportuna —
E poi saltellò di fianco al Muro
Per lasciar passare uno Scarabeo —
Guardò con occhi rapidi
Che correvano tutt’intorno —
Parevano Perline impaurite, pensai —
Mosse il suo Capo di Velluto
Come chi è in pericolo, Cauto,
Gli offrii una Briciola
E lui dispiegò le penne
E remò verso casa più lieve —
Di quanto i Remi dividano l’Oceano,
Troppo argenteo per una cucitura —
O le Farfalle, giù dalle Rive del Mezzogiorno
Balzano, senza spruzzi mentre nuotano.
To hear an Oriole sing
May be a common thing —
Or only a divine.
It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd —
The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair —
So whether it be Rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.
The “Tune is in the Tree —“
The Skeptic — showeth me —
“No Sir! In Thee!”
Udire un Rigogolo cantare
Può essere cosa comune —
O soltanto divina.
Non dipende dall’Uccello
Che canta uguale, inascoltato,
Come dinanzi a una Folla —
La Foggia dell’Orecchio
Veste ciò che ode
Di Bigio, o di chiaro —
Così che sia Runa,
O che non sia nulla
È cosa di dentro.
“La Melodia è nell’Albero —“
Lo Scettico — mi mostra —
“No Signore! In Te!”
You’ll know Her — by Her Foot —
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers — where the Toes should be —
Would more affront the Sand —
Than this Quaint Creature’s Boot —
Adjusted by a Stern —
Without a Button — I could vouch —
Unto a Velvet Limb —
You’ll know Her — by Her Vest —
Tight fitting — Orange — Brown —
Inside a Jacket duller —
She wore when she was born —
Her Cap is small — and snug —
Constructed for the Winds —
She’d pass for Barehead — short way off —
But as She Closer stands —
So finer ‘tis than Wool —
You cannot feel the Seam —
Nor is it Clasped unto of Band —
Nor held upon — of Brim —
You’ll know Her — by Her Voice —
At first — a doubtful Tone —
A sweet endeavor — but as March
To April — hurries on —
She squanders on your Ear
668
Such Arguments of Pearl —
You beg the Robin in your Brain
To keep the other — still —
La riconoscerai — dal Piede —
La più piccola Mano di Gomma-gutta
Con Dita — dove le Dita del piede dovrebbero stare —
Offenderebbe di più la Sabbia —
Che lo Stivaletto di questa Strana Creatura —
Aggiustato da una Poppa —
Senza Bottone — potrei giurarlo —
Sopra un Arto di Velluto —
La riconoscerai — dal Panciotto —
Attillato — Arancio — Bruno —
Dentro una Giacca più spenta —
Che indossava quando nacque —
Il suo Berretto è piccolo — e aderente —
Costruito per i Venti —
Passerebbe per Scapigliata — da poco lontano —
Ma quando Lei più Vicina sta —
Tanto più fine è della Lana —
Che non ne senti la Cucitura —
Né è Allacciato a un Nastro —
Né sorretto — da una Tesa —
La riconoscerai — dalla Voce —
Dapprima — un Tono incerto —
Un dolce tentativo — ma come Marzo
Ad Aprile — s’affretta —
Lei prodiga al tuo Orecchio
668
Tali Argomenti di Perla —
Che preghi il Pettirosso nel tuo Cervello
Di tenere l’altro — zitto —
Of Being is a Bird
The likest to the Down
An Easy Breeze do put afloat
The General Heavens — upon —
It soars — and shifts — and whirls —
And measures with the Clouds
In easy — even — dazzling pace —
No different the Birds —
Except a Wake of Music
Accompany their feet —
As did the Down emit a Tune —
For Ecstasy — of it
Dell’Essere è un Uccello
Ciò che più somiglia al Piumino
Che un’Agevole Brezza mette a galleggiare
Sui Cieli Universali — sopra —
S’innalza — e muta — e turbina —
E si misura con le Nuvole
In passo agevole — uniforme — abbagliante —
Non diversi gli Uccelli —
Se non che una Scia di Musica
Accompagna i loro piedi —
Come se il Piumino emettesse un Motivo —
Per l’Estasi — di ciò
The Judge is like the Owl —
I’ve heard my Father tell —
And Owls do build in Oaks —
So here’s an Amber Sill —
That slanted in my Path —
When going to the Barn —
And if it serve You for a House —
Itself is not in vain —
About the price — ‘tis small —
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight — Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.
Il Giudice è come il Gufo —
L’ho udito dire da mio Padre —
E i Gufi nidificano nelle Querce —
Ecco dunque un Davanzale d’Ambra —
Che s’inclinava sul mio Sentiero —
Andando verso il Granaio —
E se Vi serve da Casa —
Non è di per sé invano —
Quanto al prezzo — è piccolo —
Chiedo soltanto una Melodia
A Mezzanotte — Lasciate che il Gufo scelga
Il suo Ritornello favorito.
No Bobolink — reverse His Singing
When the only Tree
Ever He minded occupying
By the Farmer be —
Clove to the Root —
His Spacious Future —
Best Horizon — gone —
Whose Music be His
Only Anodyne —
Brave Bobolink —
Nessun Bobolink — inverte il Suo Canto
Quando l’unico Albero
Che mai gli premesse occupare
Dal Contadino sia —
Spaccato fino alla Radice —
Il Suo Spazioso Futuro —
Miglior Orizzonte — perduto —
Lui la cui Musica sia il Suo
Unico Anodino —
Coraggioso Bobolink —
The Robin is the One
That interrupt the Morn
With hurried — few — express Reports
When March is scarcely on —
The Robin is the One
That overflow the Noon
With her cherubic quantity —
An April but begun —
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submit that Home — and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best
Il Pettirosso è Colui
Che interrompe il Mattino
Con frettolosi — pochi — espressi Rapporti
Quando Marzo è appena giunto —
Il Pettirosso è Colui
Che inonda il Mezzogiorno
Con la sua cherubica quantità —
Un Aprile appena iniziato —
Il Pettirosso è Colui
Che muta dal suo Nido
Afferma che Casa — e Certezza
E Santità, sono il meglio
The Bird must sing to earn the Crumb
What merit have the Tune
No Breakfast if it guaranty
The Rose content may bloom
To gain renown of Lady’s Drawer
But if the Lady come
But once a Century, the Rose
Superfluous become —
L’Uccello deve cantare per guadagnarsi la Briciola
Qual merito ha la Melodia
Se Colazione non garantisce
La Rosa contenta può fiorire
Per ottenere fama nel Cassetto della Dama
Ma se la Dama viene
Solo una volta al Secolo, la Rosa
Superflua diviene —
Sang from the Heart, Sire,
Dipped my Beak in it,
If the Tune drip too much
Have a tint too Red
Pardon the Cochineal —
Suffer the Vermillion —
Death is the Wealth
Of the Poorest Bird.
Bear with the Ballad —
Awkward — faltering —
Death twists the strings —
‘Twasn’t my blame —
Pause in your Liturgies —
Wait your Chorals —
While I repeat your
Hallowed name —
Cantai dal Cuore, Sire,
Vi intinsi il Becco,
Se la Melodia gocciola troppo
Ha una tinta troppo Rossa
Perdona la Cocciniglia —
Tollera il Vermiglio —
La Morte è la Ricchezza
Dell’Uccello più Povero.
Sopporta la Ballata —
Goffa — esitante —
La Morte torce le corde —
Non fu colpa mia —
Sospendi le tue Liturgie —
Trattieni i tuoi Corali —
Mentre io ripeto il tuo
Nome santificato —
At Half past Three, a single Bird
Unto a silent Sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody.
At Half past Four, Experiment
Had subjugated test
And lo, Her silver Principle
Supplanted all the rest.
At Half past Seven, Element
Nor Implement, be seen —
And Place was where the Presence was
Circumference between.
Alle Tre e mezza, un solo Uccello
A un Cielo silenzioso
Propose soltanto un solo termine
Di cauta melodia.
Alle Quattro e mezza, l’Esperimento
Aveva soggiogato la prova
Ed ecco, il Suo argenteo Principio
Soppiantò tutto il resto.
Alle Sette e mezza, né Elemento
Né Strumento, si scorge —
E il Luogo era dove la Presenza era stata
Circonferenza in mezzo.
His Bill is clasped — his Eye forsook —
His Feathers wilted low —
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now —
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged mind
The firing in Heaven,
On Angels — squandering for you
Their Miracles of Tune —
Il suo Becco è serrato — il suo Occhio dismesso —
Le sue Piume afflosciate in basso —
Gli Artigli che stringevano, come Guanti esanimi
Ora pendono indifferenti —
La Gioia che nella sua Gola felice
Attendeva d’esser versata
Trafitta da parte a parte dalla Morte, per essere
Assassino d’un Uccello
Somiglia, per la mia mente oltraggiata,
Alla fucileria in Cielo,
Sugli Angeli — che sperperano per voi
I loro Miracoli di Melodia —
A prompt — executive Bird is the Jay —
Bold as a Bailiff’s Hymn —
Brittle and Brief in quality —
Warrant in every line —
Sitting a Bough like a Brigadier
Confident and straight —
Much is the mien of him in March
As a Magistrate —
Un pronto — esecutivo Uccello è la Ghiandaia —
Audace come l’Inno d’un Balivo —
Fragile e Breve di qualità —
Mandato in ogni linea —
Siede su un Ramo come un Brigadiere
Sicura e diritta —
Molto è il suo contegno in Marzo
Quale un Magistrato —
A Sparrow took a Slice of Twig
And thought it very nice
I think, because his empty Plate
Was handed Nature twice —
Invigorated, waded
In all the deepest Sky
Until his little Figure
Was forfeited away —
Un Passero prese una Fetta di Ramoscello
E la trovò assai buona
Credo, perché il suo Piatto vuoto
Fu porto alla Natura due volte —
Rinvigorito, guadò
In tutto il Cielo più profondo
Finché la sua piccola Figura
Non andò perduta via —
The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him —
Obliged to be inferred.
Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.
Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law —
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.
Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy —
He compliments existence
Until allured away
By Seasons or his Children —
Adult and urgent grown —
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown —
By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone —
How nullified the Meadow —
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!
Il Modo di riconoscere il Bobolink
Da ogni altro Uccello
Precisamente come la sua Gioia —
Costretto a essere inferito.
Di sfrontato Abbigliamento
Vestito per sfidare,
Impertinenza subordinata
A volte alla Maestà.
Di Sentimenti sediziosi
Docili alla Legge —
Come Eresie di Trasporto
O l’Apostasia di Puck.
Estraneo all’Attenzione
Troppo intimo con la Gioia —
Complimenta l’esistenza
Finché non è attirato via
Dalle Stagioni o dai suoi Figli —
Fatti adulti e urgenti —
O da un ingrandimento imprevisto
O, felicemente, dalla Fama —
Per Contrasto certificando
Che l’Uccello degli Uccelli è andato —
Come annullato il Prato —
Ritirato il suo Stregone!
Not with a Club, the Heart is broken
Nor with a Stone —
A Whip so small you could not see it
I’ve known
To lash the Magic Creature
Till it fell,
Yet that Whip’s Name
Too noble then to tell.
Magnanimous as Bird
By Boy descried —
Singing unto the Stone
Of which it died —
Shame need not crouch
In such an Earth as Ours —
Shame — stand erect —
The Universe is yours.
Non con una Clava, si spezza il Cuore
Né con una Pietra —
Una Frusta così piccola da non vederla
Ho conosciuto
Sferzare la Magica Creatura
Finché cadde,
Eppure il Nome di quella Frusta
Troppo nobile allora per dirlo.
Magnanima come Uccello
Da Fanciullo avvistato —
Che canta alla Pietra
Di cui morì —
La Vergogna non deve accucciarsi
In una Terra come la Nostra —
Vergogna — sta’ eretta —
L’Universo è tuo.
LAID ASIDE —
After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside —
Nature imparts the little Blue-Bird — assured
Her conscientious Voice will soar unmoved
Above ostensible Vicissitude.
First at the March — competing with the Wind —
Her panting note exalts us — like a friend —
Last to adhere when Summer cleaves away —
Elegy of Integrity.
MESSI DA PARTE —
Dopo che tutti gli Uccelli sono stati esaminati e messi da parte —
Natura impartisce il piccolo Uccello-Azzurro — certa
Che la sua Voce coscienziosa si leverà impassibile
Sopra l’apparente Vicissitudine.
Prima al Marzo — in gara col Vento —
La sua nota ansante ci esalta — come un’amica —
Ultima ad aderire quando l’Estate si stacca —
Elegia d’Integrità.
One Joy of so much anguish
Sweet nature has for me
I shun it as I do Despair
Or dear iniquity —
Why Birds, a Summer morning
Before the Quick of Day
Should stab my ravished spirit
With Dirks of Melody
Is part of an inquiry
That will receive reply
When Flesh and Spirit sunder
In Death’s Immediately —
Una Gioia di tanta angoscia
La dolce natura ha per me
La sfuggo come la Disperazione
O una cara iniquità —
Perché gli Uccelli, un mattino d’Estate
Prima del Vivo del Giorno
Debbano trafiggere il mio spirito rapito
Con Stiletti di Melodia
È parte di un’indagine
Che avrà risposta
Quando Carne e Spirito si scindano
Nell’Immediatamente della Morte —
A Route of Evanescence
With a revolving Wheel —
A Resonance of Emerald —
A Rush of Cochineal —
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head —
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning’s Ride —
Una Rotta di Evanescenza
Con una Ruota che gira —
Una Risonanza di Smeraldo —
Un Impeto di Cocciniglia —
E ogni Fiore sul Cespuglio
Raddrizza il Capo scomposto —
La posta da Tunisi, probabilmente,
Un’agevole Corsa di un Mattino —
One of the ones that Midas touched
Who failed to touch us all
Was that confiding Prodigal
The reeling Oriole —
So drunk he disavows it
With badinage divine —
So dazzling we mistake him
For an alighting Mine —
A Pleader — a Dissembler —
An Epicure — a Thief —
Betimes an Oratorio —
An Ecstasy in chief —
The Jesuit of Orchards
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire Attar
For his decamping wants —
The splendor of a Burmah
The Meteor of Birds,
Departing like a Pageant
Of Ballads and of Bards —
I never thought that Jason sought
For any Golden Fleece
But then I am a rural man
With thoughts that make for Peace —
But if there were a Jason,
1513
Tradition bear with me
Behold his lost Aggrandizement
Upon the Apple Tree —
Uno di quelli che Mida toccò
E che mancò di toccarci tutti
Fu quel confidente Prodigo
Il vacillante Rigogolo —
Così ebbro che lo rinnega
Con celia divina —
Così abbagliante che lo scambiamo
Per una Miniera che si posa —
Un Supplice — un Simulatore —
Un Epicureo — un Ladro —
Talvolta un Oratorio —
Un’Estasi in capo —
Il Gesuita dei Frutteti
Truffa mentre incanta
Di un intero Attar
Per i suoi bisogni in fuga —
Lo splendore di una Birmania
La Meteora degli Uccelli,
Che parte come un Corteo
Di Ballate e di Bardi —
Mai pensai che Giasone cercasse
Alcun Vello d’Oro
Ma io sono un uomo dei campi
Con pensieri che inclinano alla Pace —
Ma se ci fosse un Giasone,
1513
Tradizione abbi pazienza con me
Guarda il suo perduto Ingrandimento
Sull’Albero di Mele —
The fascinating chill that music leaves
Is Earth’s corroboration
Of Ecstasy’s impediment —
‘Tis Rapture’s germination
In timid and tumultuous soil
A fine — estranging creature —
To something upper wooing us
But not to our Creator —
Il fascinoso brivido che la musica lascia
È la conferma della Terra
Dell’impedimento dell’Estasi —
È germinazione del Rapimento
In suolo timido e tumultuoso
Una fine — estraniante creatura —
Che a qualcosa di superno ci corteggia
Ma non al nostro Creatore —
The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances —
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport’s Working Classes —
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer —
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer —
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold —
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation —
Il Pettirosso è un Gabriele
In umili circostanze —
La Veste lo denota socialmente,
Delle Classi Operaie del Trasporto —
Ha la puntualità
Del Contadino del New England —
La stessa obliqua integrità,
Una Vista assai più calda —
Una piccola ma salda Residenza
Una Famiglia che nega sé,
Gli Ospiti della Perspicacia
Son tutti quelli che varcano la sua Soglia —
Furtivo come un Fuggiasco,
Blandendo la Costernazione
Con Canzoncine al Nemico
E Silvestre Punteggiatura —
No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay —
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away —
The Snow and he are intimate —
I’ve often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity —
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens —
His Larder — terse and Militant —
Unknown — refreshing things —
His Character — a Tonic —
His future — a Dispute —
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out —
Nessun Brigadiere lungo l’Anno
Così civico come la Ghiandaia —
Vicino e Guerriero insieme
Con stridula felicità
Inseguendo Venti che ci censurano
Un Giorno di Febbraio,
Il Fratello dell’Universo
Non fu mai spazzato via —
La Neve e lui sono intimi —
Spesso li ho visti giocare
Quando il Cielo ci guardava tutti
Con tale severità
Che sentivo dovute delle scuse
A un cielo insultato
Il cui cipiglio pomposo era Nutrimento
Alla loro Temerità —
Il Guanciale di questa Testa audace
Sono pungenti Sempreverdi —
La sua Dispensa — asciutta e Militante —
Ignote — rinfrescanti cose —
Il suo Carattere — un Tonico —
Il suo futuro — una Disputa —
Ingiusta un’Immortalità
Che lascia fuori questo Vicino —
Forever honored by the Tree
Whose Apple Winterworn
Enticed to Breakfast from the Sky
Two Gabriels Yestermorn.
They registered in Nature’s Book
As Robins — Sire and Son —
But Angels have that modest way
To screen them from Renown.
Per sempre onorato dall’Albero
La cui Mela consunta dall’Inverno
Invitò a Colazione dal Cielo
Due Gabrieli Ierimattina.
Si registrarono nel Libro della Natura
Come Pettirossi — Padre e Figlio —
Ma gli Angeli hanno quel modo modesto
Di schermirsi dalla Fama.
The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in its place —
Its place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heavenly Grace —
What respite from her thrilling toil
Did Beauty ever take —
But Work might be electric Rest
To those that Magic make —
L’Uccello la sua puntuale musica porta
E la depone al suo posto —
Il suo posto è nel Cuore Umano
E nella Grazia Celeste —
Quale tregua dalla sua vibrante fatica
Si prese mai la Bellezza —
Ma il Lavoro può essere elettrico Riposo
Per quelli che fanno Magia —
Cosmopolites without a plea
Alight in every Land
The compliments of Paradise
From those within my Hand
Their dappled Journey to themselves
A compensation fair
Knock and it shall be opened
Is their Theology
Cosmopoliti senza supplica
Si posano in ogni Terra
I complimenti del Paradiso
Da quelli nella mia Mano
Il loro screziato Viaggio a se stessi
Un equo compenso
Bussate e vi sarà aperto
È la loro Teologia
The Bobolink is gone —
The Rowdy of the Meadow —
And no one swaggers now but me —
The Presbyterian Birds
Can now resume the Meeting
He boldly interrupted that overflowing Day
When supplicating mercy
In a portentous way
He swung upon the Decalogue
And shouted let us pray —
Il Bobolink se n’è andato —
Il Chiassoso del Prato —
E nessuno si pavoneggia ora se non io —
Gli Uccelli Presbiteriani
Possono ora riprendere l’Adunanza
Che lui audace interruppe quel Giorno traboccante
Quando supplicando misericordia
In modo portentoso
Si dondolò sul Decalogo
E gridò preghiamo —
Upon his Saddle sprung a Bird
And crossed a thousand Trees
Before a Fence without a Fare
His Fantasy did please
And then he lifted up his Throat
And squandered such a Note
A Universe that overheard
Is stricken by it yet —
Sul suo Arcione balzò un Uccello
E attraversò mille Alberi
Prima che un Recinto senza Pedaggio
La sua Fantasia compiacesse
E poi sollevò la Gola
E sperperò una tale Nota
Che un Universo che origliava
Ne è colpito ancora —
Quite empty, quite at rest,
The Robin locks her Nest, and tries her Wings.
She does not know a Route
But puts her Craft about
For rumored Springs —
She does not ask for Noon —
She does not ask for Boon,
Crumbless and homeless, of but one request —
The Birds she lost —
Del tutto vuota, del tutto in quiete,
La Pettirossa serra il suo Nido, e prova le Ali.
Non conosce una Rotta
Ma volge la sua Arte
Verso Primavere vociferate —
Non chiede il Mezzogiorno —
Non chiede Grazia,
Senza briciole e senza casa, di una sola richiesta —
Gli Uccelli che ha perduto —
Conferring with myself
My stranger disappeared
Though first upon a berry fat
Miraculously fared
How paltry looked my cares
My practise how absurd
Superfluous my whole career
Beside this travelling Bird
Conferendo con me stessa
Il mio straniero scomparve
Benché prima su una bacca grassa
Miracolosamente banchettasse
Che meschine parvero le mie cure
La mia pratica che assurda
Superflua l’intera mia carriera
Accanto a questo Uccello viaggiatore
A train went through a burial gate,
A bird broke forth and sang,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
Till all the churchyard rang ;
And then adjusted his little notes,
And bowed and sang again.
Doubtless, he thought it meet of him
To say good-by to men.
Un corteo varcò la porta d’un cimitero,
Un uccello proruppe nel canto,
E trillò, e fremette, e scosse la gola
Finché tutto il camposanto risuonò ;
E poi aggiustò le sue piccole note,
E s’inchinò e cantò di nuovo.
Senza dubbio, pensò che gli si addicesse
Dire addio agli uomini.
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows, —
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night’s delicious close.
Between the March and April line —
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.
It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.
It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go and sing no more.
An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.
Il rumore più triste, il rumore più dolce,
Il rumore più folle che cresce, —
Gli uccelli, lo fanno in primavera,
Al chiudersi delizioso della notte.
Fra la linea di marzo e d’aprile —
Quella frontiera magica
Oltre cui l’estate esita,
Quasi troppo celestialmente vicina.
Ci fa pensare a tutti i morti
Che passeggiarono con noi qui,
Dalla stregoneria della separazione
Resi crudelmente più cari.
Ci fa pensare a ciò che avemmo,
E a ciò che ora rimpiangiamo.
Quasi vorremmo che quelle gole di sirena
Andassero a non cantare mai più.
Un orecchio può spezzare un cuore umano
Rapido come una lancia,
Vorremmo che l’orecchio non avesse un cuore
Così pericolosamente vicino.
The earth has many keys,
Where melody is not
Is the unknown peninsula.
Beauty is nature’s fact.
But witness for her land,
And witness for her sea,
The cricket is her utmost
Of elegy to me.
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La terra ha molte chiavi,
Dove melodia non è
È la penisola sconosciuta.
La Bellezza è il fatto della natura.
Ma testimone per la sua terra,
E testimone per il suo mare,
Il grillo è il suo estremo
Di elegia per me.
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DEAR A.,—It seems almost an age since I have seen you, and it is indeed an age for friends to be separated. I was delighted to receive a paper from you, and I also was much pleased with the news it contained, especially that you are taking lessons on the “piny,” as you always call it. But remember not to get on ahead of me. Father intends to have a piano very soon. How happy I shall be when I have one of my own! Old Father Time has wrought many changes here since your last short visit. Miss S. T. and Miss N. M. have both taken the marriage vows upon themselves. Dr. Hitchcock has moved into his new house, and Mr. Tyler across the way from our house has moved into President Hitchcock’s old house. Mr. C. is going to move into Mr. T.’s former house, but the worst thing old Time has done here is he has walked so fast as to overtake H. M. and carry her to Hartford on last week Saturday. I was so vexed with him for it that I ran after him and made out to get near enough -to him to put some salt on his tail, when he fled and left me to run home alone… . Viny went to Boston this morning with father, to be gone a fortnight, and I am left alone in all my glory. I suppose she has got there before this time, and is probably staring with mouth and eyes wide open at the wonders of the city. I have been to walk to-night, and got some very choice wild flowers. I wish you had some of them. Viny and I both go to school this term. We have a very fine school. There are 63 scholars. I have four studies. They are Mental Philosophy, Geology, Latin, and Botany. How large they sound, don’t they? I don’t believe you have such big studies. : . . My plants look finely now. I am going to send you a little geranium leaf in this letter, which you must press for me. Have you made you an herbarium yet? I hope you will if you have not, it would be such a treasure to you; ‘most all the girls are making one. If you do, perhaps I can make some additions to it from flowers growing around here. How do you enjoy your school this term? Are the teachers as pleasant as our old school-teachers? I expect you have a great many prism, starched up young ladies there, who, I doubt not, are perfect models of propriety and good behavior. If they are, don’t let your free spirit be chained by them. I don’t know as there [are] any in school of this stamp. But there ‘most always are a few, whom the teachers look up to and regard as their satellites. I am growing handsome very fast indeed! I expect I shall be the belle of Amherst when I reach my 17the year. I don’t doubt that I shall have perfect crowds of admirers at that age. Then how I shall delight to make them await my bidding, and with what delight shall I witness their suspense while I make my final decision. But away with my nonsense. I have written one composition this term, and I need not assure you it was exceedingly edifying to myself as well as everybody else. Don’t you want to see it? I really wish you could have a chance. We are obliged to write compositions once in a fortnight, and select a piece to read from some interesting book the week that we don’t write compositions.
We really have some most charming young women in school this term. I sha’n’t call them anything but women, for women they are in every sense of the word. I must, however, describe one, and while I describe her I wish Imagination, who is ever present with you, to make a little picture of this self-same young lady in your mind, and by her aid see if you cannot conceive how she looks. Well, to begin… . Then just imagine her as she is, and a huge string of gold beads encircling her neck, and don’t she present a lively picture; and then she is so bustling, she is always whizzing about, and whenever I come in contact with her I really think I am in a hornet’s nest. I can’t help thinking every time I see this singular piece of humanity of Shakespeare’s description of a tempest in a teapot. But I must not laugh about her, for I verily believe she has a good heart, and that is the principal thing now-a-days. Don’t you hope I shall become wiser in the company of such virtuosos? It would certainly be desirable. Have you noticed how beautifully the trees look now? They seem to be completely covered with fragrant blossoms… . I had so many things to do for Viny, as she was going away, that very much against my wishes I deferred writing you until now, but forgive and forget, dear A., and I will promise to do better in future. Do write me soon, and let it be a long, long letter; and when you can’t get time to write, send a paper, so as to let me know you think of me still, though we are separated by hill and stream. All the girls send much love to you. Don’t forget to let me receive a letter from you soon. I can say no more now as my paper is all filled up.
Written in 1845; postmarked AMHERST, August 4 Sabbath Eve
Dear A.,—I have now sat down to write you a long, long letter. My writing apparatus is upon a stand before me, and all things are ready. I have no flowers before me as you had to inspire you. But then you know I can imagine myself inspired by them, and perhaps that will do as well. You cannot imagine how delighted I was to receive your letter. It was so full, and everything in it was interesting to me because it came from you. I presume you did not doubt my gratitude for it, on account of my delaying so long to answer it, for you know I have had no leisure for anything. When I tell you that our term has been eleven weeks long, and that I have had four studies and taken music lessons, you can imagine a little how my time has been taken up lately. I will try to be more punctual in such matters for the future. How are you now? I am very sorry to hear that you are unable to remain in your school on account of your health, it must be such a disappointment to you. But I presume you are enjoying yourself much to be at home again. You asked me in your last letter if old Father Time wagged on in Amherst pretty much as ever. For my part, I see no particular change in his movements unless it be that he goes on a swifter pace than formerly, and that he wields his sickle more sternly than ever. How do you like taking music lessons? I presume you are delighted with it. I am taking lessons this term of Aunt S——, who is spending the summer with us. I never enjoyed myself more than I have this summer; for we have had such a delightful school and such pleasant teachers, and besides I have had a piano of my own. Our examination is to come off next week on Monday. I wish you could be here at that time. Why can’t you come? If you will, you can come and practise on my piano as much as you wish to. I am already gasping in view of our examination; and although I am determined not to dread it I know it is so foolish, yet in spite of my heroic resolutions, I cannot avoid a few misgivings when I think of those tall, stern trustees, and when I know that I shall lose my character if I don’t recite as precisely as the laws of the Medes and Persians. But what matter will that be a hundred years hence? I will distress you no longer with my fears, for you know well enough what they are without my entering into any explanations. Are you practising now you are at home? I hope you are, for if you are not you would be likely to forget what you have learnt. I want very much to hear you play. I have the same instruction book that you have, Bertini, and I am getting along in it very well. Aunt S——says she sha’n’t let me have many tunes now, for she wants I should get over in the book a good ways first. Oh, A., if Sarah G——, H——, and yourself were only here this summer, what times we should have! I wish if we can’t be together all the time that we could meet once in a while at least. I wish you would all come to our house, and such times as we would have would be a caution. I want to see you all so much that it seems as if I could not wait. Have you heard anything from Miss Adams, our dear teacher? How much I would give to see her once more, but I am afraid I never shall. She is so far away. You asked me in your letter to tell you all the news worth telling, and although there is not much, yet I will endeavor to think of everything that will be new to you. In the first place, Mrs. J. and Mrs. S. M. have both of them a little daughter. Very promising childen, I understand. I don’t doubt if they live they will be ornaments to society. I think they are both to be considered as embryos of future usefulness. Mrs. W. M. has now two grand-daughters. Isn’t she to be envied? … I am sorry that you are laying up H.’s sins against her. I think you had better heap coals of fire upon her head by writing to her constantly until you get an answer. I have some patience with these “school marms.” They have so many trials. I hope you will decide to blot out her iniquities against her. I don’t know about this Mr. E. giving you concert tickets. I think for my part it looks rather suspicious. He is a young man, I suppose. These music teachers are always such high-souled beings that I think they would exactly suit your fancy. My garden looks beautifully now. I wish you could see it. I would send you a bouquet if I could get a good opportunity. My house plants look very finely, too. You wished me to give you some account of S. P. She is attending school this term and studying Latin and Algebra. She is very well and happy and sends much love to you. All the girls send much love to you, and wish you to write to them. I have been working a beautiful book-mark to give to one of our school-girls. Perhaps you have seen it. It is an arrow with a beautiful wreath around it. Have you altered any since I have seen you? Isn’t it a funny question for one friend to ask another? I haven’t altered any, I think, except that I have my hair done up, and that makes me look different. I can imagine just how you look now. I wonder what you are doing this moment. I have got an idea that you are knitting edging. Are you? Won’t you tell me when you answer my letter whether I guessed right or not? … You gave me a compliment in your letter in regard to my being a faithful correspondent. I must say I think I deserve it. I have been learning several beautiful pieces lately. The “Grave of Bonaparte” is one, “Lancers Quickstep,” and “Maiden, weep no more,” which is a sweet little song. I wish much to see you and hear you play. I hope you will come to A. before long. Why can’t you pass commencement here? I do wish you would… . I have looked my letter over, and find I have written nothing worth reading… . Accept much love from your affectionate friend,
I send you a memento in the form of a pressed flower, which you must keep.
A converted Jew has been lecturing here for the last week. His lectures were free, and they were on the present condition of the Jews. Dr. Scudder, a returned missionary, is here now, and he is lecturing also. Have you seen a beautiful piece of poetry which has been going through the papers lately? Are we almost there? is the title of it… . I have two hours to practise daily now I am in school. I have been learning a beautiful thing, which I long to have you hear… .
MY DEAR A.,—When I last wrote you I was in Boston, where I spent a delightful visit of four weeks. I returned home about the middle of September in very good health and spirits, for which it seems to me I cannot be sufficiently grateful to the Giver of all mercies. I expected to go into the Academy upon my return home, but as I stayed longer than I expected to, and as the school had already commenced, I made up my mind to remain at home during the fall term and pursue my studies the winter term, which commences a week after Thanksgiving. I kept my good resolution for once in my life, and have been sewing, practising upon the piano, and assisting mother in household affairs. I am anticipating the commencement of the next term with a great deal of pleasure, for I have been an exile from school two terms on account of my health, and you know what it is to “love school.” Miss Adams is with us now, and will remain through the winter, and we have an excellent Principal in the person of Mr. Leonard Humphrey, who was the last valedictorian. We now have a fine school. I thank you a thousand times for your long and affectionate letter… . I found a quantity of sewing waiting with open arms to embrace me, or rather for me to embrace it, and I could hardly give myself up to “Nature’s sweet restorer,” for the ghosts of out-of-order garments crying for vengeance upon my defenceless head. However, I am happy to inform you, my dear friend, that I have nearly finished my sewing for winter, and will answer all the letters which you shall deem worthy to send so naughty a girl as myself, at short notice… .
Write soon. Your affectionate
I love to link you, A. and E., I love to put you together and look at you side by side—the picture pleases me, and I should love to watch it until the sun goes down, did I not call to mind a very precious letter for which I have not as yet rendered a single farthing, so let me thank you that midst your many friends and cares and influenzas, you yet found time for me, and loved me. You remarked that I had written you more affectionately than wont—I have thought that word over and over, and it puzzles me now; whether our few last years have been cooler than our first ones, or whether I write indifferently when I truly know it not, the query troubles me. I do believe sincerely, that the friendship formed at school was no warmer than now, nay more, that this is warmest—they differ indeed to me as morning differs from noon—one may be fresher, cheerier, but the other fails not.
You and I have grown older since school-days, and our years have made us soberer—I mean have made me so, for you were always dignified, e’en when a little girl, and I used, now and then, to cut a timid caper. That makes me think of you the very first time I saw you, and I can’t repress a smile, not to say a hearty laugh, at your little girl expense. I have roused your curiosity, so I will e’en tell you that one Wednesday afternoon, in the days of that dear old Academy, I went in to be entertained by the rhetoric of the gentlemen and the milder form of the girls—I had hardly recovered myself from the dismay attendant upon entering august assemblies, when with the utmost equanimity you ascended the stairs, bedecked with dandelions, arranged, it seemed, for curls. I shall never forget that scene, if I live to have gray hairs, nor the very remarkable fancies it gave me then of you, and it comes over me now with the strangest bygone funniness, and I laugh merrily. Oh, A., you and the early flower are forever linked to me; as soon as the first green grass comes, up from a chink in the stones peeps the little flower, precious “leontodon,” and my heart fills toward you with a warm and childlike fulness! Nor do I laugh now; far from it, I rather bless the flower which sweetly, slyly too, makes me come nearer you.
But, my dear, I can’t give the dandelion the privilege due to you, so good-by, little one!
I would love to see you, A., I would rather than write to you, might I with equal ease, for the weather is very warm, and my head aches a little, and my heart a little more, so taking me collectively, I seem quite miserable, but I’ll give you the sunny comers, and you mustn’t look at the shade. You were happy when you wrote me; I hope so now, though I would you were in the country, and could reach the hills and fields. I can reach them, carry them home, which I do in my arms daily, and when they drop and fade, I have only to gather fresh ones. Your joy would indeed be full, could you sit as I, at my window, and hear the boundless birds, and every little while feel the breath of some new flower! Oh, do you love the spring, and isn’t it brothers and sisters, and blessed, ministering spirits unto you and me, and us all?
I often see A.—oftener than at sometimes when friendship drooped a little. Did you ever know that a flower, once withered and freshened again, became an immortal flower, —that is, that it rises again? I think resurrections here are sweeter, it may be, than the longer and lasting one—for you expect the one, and only hope for the other… . I will show you the sunset if you will sit by me, but I cannot bring it there, for so much gold is heavy. Can you see it in Philadelphia?
A rather long interval seems to have elapsed between the preceding letter and the next, which was written about July 26, probably of 1853. The hand-writing is quite different from the earlier letters, more resembling that middle period of which an illustration is given (page 182), yet still somewhat smaller.
The delicate and sunshiny sarcasm in this note may be the more fully appreciated by recalling that Emily Dickinson was not yet twenty-two years old.
It might not come amiss; dear Austin, to have a tiding or two concerning our state and feelings, particularly when we remember that “Jamie has gone awa’.”
Our state is pretty comfortable, and our feelings are somewhat solemn, which we account for satisfactorily by calling to mind the fact that it is the Sabbath day. Whether a certain passenger in a certain yesterday’s stage has any sombre effect on our once merry household or the reverse, “I dinna choose to tell,” but be the case as it may, we are rather a crestfallen company, to make the best of us, and what with the sighing wind, the sobbing rain, and the whining of Nature generally, we can hardly contain ourselves, and I only hope and trust that your this-evening’slot is cast in far more cheery places than the ones you leave behind.
We are enjoying this evening what is called a “northeast storm”—a little north of east in case you are pretty definite. Father thinks it’s “amazin’ raw,” and I’m half disposed to think that he’s in the right about it, though I keep pretty dark and don’t say much about it! Vinnie is at the instrument, humming a pensive air concerning a young lady who thought she was “almost there.” Vinnie seems much grieved, and I really suppose I ought to betake myself to weeping; I’m pretty sure that I shall if she don’t abate her singing.
Father’s just got home from meeting and Mr. Boltwood’s, found the last quite comfortable and the first not quite so well… . There has been not much stirring since when you went away—I should venture to say prudently that matters had come to a stand—unless something new “turns up,” I cannot see anything to prevent a quiet season. Father takes care of the doors and mother of the windows, and Vinnie and I are secure against all outward attacks. If we can get our hearts “under,” I don’t have much to fear—I’ve got all but three feelings down, if I can only keep them! …
I shall think of you to-morrow with four and twenty Irish boys all in a row. I miss you very much—I put on my bonnet to-night, opened the gate very desperately, and for a little while the suspense was terrible—I think I was held in check by some invisible agent, for I returned to the house without having done any harm!
If I hadn’t been afraid that you would “poke fun” at my feelings, I had written a sincere letter, but since “the world is hollow, and dollie’s stuffed with sawdust,” I really do not think we had better expose our feelings… .
DEAR AUSTIN,—Something seems to whisper “He is thinking of home this evening,” perhaps because it rains, perhaps because it’s evening and the orchestra of winds perform their strange, sad music. I wouldn’t wonder if home were thinking of him; and it seems so natural for one to think of the other, perhaps it is no superstition or omen of this evening,—no omen “at all, at all,” as Mrs. Mack would say.
Father is staying at home this evening it is so inclement —Vinnie diverts his mind with little snatches of music; and mother mends a garment to make it snugger for you—and what do you think I do among this family circle? I am thinking of you with all my might, and it just occurs to me to note a few of my thoughts for your own inspection. “Keeping a diary” is not familiar to me as to your sister Vinnie, but her own bright example is quite a comfort to me, so I’ll try.
I waked up this morning thinking for all the world I had had a letter from you—just as the seal was breaking, father rapped at my door. I was sadly disappointed not to go on and read; but when the four black horses came trotting into town, and their load was none the heavier by a tiding for me—I was not disappointed then, it was harder to me than had I been disappointed… . I found I had made no provision for any such time as that… . The weather has been unpleasant ever since you went away—Monday morning we waked up in the midst of a furious snow-storm—the snow was the depth of an inch; oh, it looked so wintry! By-and-by the sun came out, but the wind blew violently and it grew so cold that we gathered all the quinces, put up the stove in the sitting-room, and bade the world good-by. Kind clouds came over at evening; still the sinking thermometer gave terrible signs of what would be on the morning. At last the morning came, laden with mild south winds, and the winds have brought the rains, so here we are… . Your very hasty letter just at your return rejoiced us—that you were “better—happier —heartier.” What made you think of such beautiful words to tell us how you were, and how cheerful you were feeling? It did us a world of good. How little the scribe thinks of the value of his line—how many eager eyes will search its every meaning, how much swifter the strokes of “the little mystic clock, no human eye hath seen, which ticketh on and ticketh on, from morning until e’en.” If it were not that I could write you, you could not go away; therefore pen and ink are very excellent things.
We had new brown bread for tea—when it came smoking on and we sat around the table, how I did wish a slice could be reserved for you! You shall have as many loaves as we have eaten slices if you will but come home. This suggests Thanksgiving, you will soon be here; then I can’t help thinking of how, when we rejoice, so many hearts are breaking next Thanksgiving day. What will you say, Austin, if I tell you that Jennie Grout and merry Martha Kingman will spend the day above? They are not here—“While we delayed to let them forth, angels beyond stayed for them.”…
DEAR AUSTIN,—We have just got home from meeting —it is very windy and cold—the hills from our kitchen window are just crusted with snow, which with their blue mantillas makes them seem so beautiful. You sat just here last Sunday, where I am sitting now; and our voices were nimbler than our pens can be, if they try never so hardly. I should be quite sad to-day, thinking about last Sunday, didn’t another Sabbath smile at me so pleasantly, promising me on its word to present you here again when “six days’ work is done.”
Father and mother sit in state in the sitting-room perusing such papers, only, as they are well assured, have nothing carnal in them; Vinnie is eating an apple which makes me think of gold, and accompanying it with her favorite Observer, which, if you recollect, deprives us many a time of her sisterly society. Pussy hasn’t returned from the afternoon assembly, so you have us all just as we are at present. We were very glad indeed to hear from you so soon, glad that a cheerful fire met you at the door. I do well remember how chilly the west wind blew, and how everything shook and rattled before I went to sleep, and I often thought of you in the midnight car, and hoped you were not lonely… . We are thinking most of Thanksgiving than anything else just now—how full will be the circle, less then by none—how the things will smoke—how the board will groan with the thousand savory viands—how when the day is done, lo, the evening cometh, laden with merrie laugh and happy conversation, and then the sleep and the dream each of a knight or “Ladie”—how I love to see them, a beautiful company coming down the hill which men call the Future, with their hearts full of joy and their hands of gladness. Thanksgiving indeed to a family united once more together before they go away… . Don’t mind the days—some of them are long ones, but who cares for length when breadth is in store for him? Or who minds the cross who knows he’ll have a crown? I wish I could imbue you with all the strength and courage which can be given men—I wish I could assure you of the constant remembrance of those you leave at home—I wish —but oh! how vainly—that I could bring you back again and never more to stray. You are tired now, dear Austin, with my incessant din, but I can’t help saying any of these things.
The very warmest love from Vinnie and every one of us. I am never ready to go.
Did you think I was tardy, Austin? For two Sunday afternoons it has been so cold and cloudy that I didn’t feel in my very happiest mood, and so I did not write until next Monday morning, determining in my heart never to write to you in any but cheerful spirits.
Even this morning, Austin, I am not in merry case, for it snows slowly and solemnly, and hardly an outdoor thing can be seen a-stirring-now and then a man goes by with a large cloak wrapped around him, and shivering at that; and now and then a stray kitten out on some urgent errand creeps through the flakes and crawls so fast as may crawl half frozen away. I am glad for the sake of your body that you are not here this morning, for it is a trying time for fingers and toes—for the heart’s sake I would verily have you here. You know there are winter mornings when the cold without only adds to the warm within, and the more it snows and the harder it blows brighter the fires blaze, and chirps more merrily the “cricket on the hearth.” It is hardly cheery enough for such a scene this morning, and yet methinks it would be if you were only here. The future full of sleigh-rides would chase the gloom from our minds which only deepens and darkens with every flake that falls.
Black Fanny would “toe the mark” if you should be here to-morrow; but as the prospects are, I presume Black Fanny’s hoofs will not attempt to fly. Do you have any snow in Boston? Enough for a ride, I hope, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne.” Perhaps the “ladie” of curls would not object to a drive… . We miss you more and more, we do not become accustomed to separation from you. I almost wish sometimes we needn’t miss you so much, since duty claims a year of you entirely to herself; and then again I think that it is pleasant to miss you if you must go away, and I would not have it otherwise, even if I could. In every pleasure and pain you come up to our minds so wishfully—we know you’d enjoy our joy, and if you were with us, Austin, we could bear little trials more cheerfully. . When I know of anything funny I am just as apt to cry, far more so than to laugh, for I know who loves jokes best, and who is not here to enjoy them. We don’t have many jokes, though, now, it is pretty much all sobriety; and we do not have much poetry, father having made up his mind that it’s pretty much all real life. Father’s real life and mine sometimes come into collision but as yet escape unhurt… . I am so glad you are well and in such happy spirits—both happy and well is a great comfort to us when you are far away.
DEAR AUSTIN,—… How soon now you are coming, and how happy we are in thought of seeing you! I can’t realize that you will come, it is so still and lonely it doesn’t seem possible it can be otherwise; but we shall see, when the nails hang full of coats again, and the chairs hang full of hats, and I can count the slippers under the chair. Oh, Austin, how we miss them all, and more than them, somebody who used to hang them there, and get many a hint ungentle to carry them away. Those times seem far off now, a great way, as things we did when children. I wish we were children now—I wish we were always children, how to grow up I don’t know… . Cousin J. has made us an Æolian harp which plays beautifully whenever there is a breeze.
Austin, you mustn’t care if your letters do not get here just when you think they will—they are always new to us, and delightful always, and the more you send us the happier we shall be. We all send our love to you, and think much and say much of seeing you again—keep well till you come, and if knowing that we all love you makes you happier, then, Austin, you may sing the whole day long!
… It is cold here to-day, Austin, and the west wind blows—the windows are shut at home, and the fire bums in the kitchen. How we should love to see you—how pleasant it would be to walk to the grove together. We will walk there when you get home. We all went down this morning, and the trees look beautifully—every one is growing, and when the west wind blows, the pines lift their light leaves and make sweet music. Pussy goes down there too, and seems to enjoy much in her own observations.
Mr. Dwight has not answered yet; he probably will this week. I do think he will come, Austin, and shall be so glad if he will… . We all wish you here always, but I hope ‘twill seem only dearer for missing it so long. Father says you will come in three weeks—that won’t be long now—keep well and happy, Austin, and remember us all you can, and much love from home and
Well, Austin,—it’s Sunday evening. Vinnie is sick with the ague—mother taking a tour of the second story as she is wont, Sabbath evening—the wind is blowing high, the weather very cold, and I am rather cast down in view of all these circumstances… . I went to meeting alone all day. I assure you I felt very solemn. I went to meeting five minutes before the bell rang, morning and afternoon, so not to have to go in after all the people had got there. I wish you had heard Mr. Dwight’s sermons to-day. He has preached wonderfully, and I thought all the afternoon how I wished you were there… . I will tell you something funny. You know Vinnie sent father [at Washington] a box of maple sugar—she got the box at the store, and it said on the outside of it, “I doz. genuine Quaker Soap.” We didn’t hear from the box, but so many days passed we began to feel anxious lest it had never reached him; and mother, writing soon, alluded in her letter to the “sugar sent by the girls,” and the funniest letter from father came in answer to hers. It seems the box went straightway, but father not knowing the hand, merely took off the papers in which the box was wrapped, and the label “Quaker Soap” so far imposed upon him that he put the box in a drawer with his shaving materials, and supposed himself well stocked with an excellent Quaker Soap… . We all send our love to you, and want you should write us often. Good-night, from
… The Germanians gave a concert here the evening of exhibition day. Vinnie and I went with J. I never heard sounds before. They seemed like brazen robins, all wearing broadcloth wings, and I think they were, for they all flew away as soon as the concert was over.
DEAR EMILY,—I fear you will be lonely this dark and stormy day, and I send this little messenger to say you must not be.
The day is long to me. I have wanted to come and see you. I have tried earnestly to come, but always have been detained by some ungenerous care, and now this falling snow sternly and silently lifts up its hand between.
How glad I am affection can always leave and go. How glad that the drifts of snow pause at the outer door and go no farther, and it is as warm within as if no winter came… . Let us think of the pleasant summer whose gardens are far away, and whose robins are singing always. If it were not for blossoms … and for that brighter sunshine above, beyond, away, these days were dark indeed; but I try to keep recollecting that we are away from home, and have many brothers and sisters who are expecting us. Dear Emilie, don’t weep, for you will both be so happy where “sorrow cannot come.”
Vinnie left her Testament on a little stand in our room, and it made me think of her, so I thought I would open it, and the first words I read were in those sweetest verses, “Blessed are the poor—Blessed are they that mourn—Blessed are they that weep, for they shall be comforted.” Dear Emily, I thought of you, and I hastened away to send this message to you.
DEAR FRIENDS,—I write to you. I receive no letter.
I say “they dignify my trust.” I do not disbelieve. I go again. Cardinals wouldn’t do it. Cockneys wouldn’t do it, but I can’t stop to strut, in a world where bells toll. I hear through visitor in town, that “Mrs. Holland is not strong.” The little peacock in me, tells me not to inquire again. Then I remember my tiny friend—how brief she is—how dear she is, and the peacock quite dies away. Now, you need not speak, for perhaps you are weary, and “Herod” requires all your thought, but if you are well—let Annie draw me a little picture of an erect flower; if you are ill, she can hang the flower a little on one side!
Then, I shall understand, and you need not stop to write me a letter. Perhaps you laugh at me! Perhaps the whole United States are laughing at me too! I can’t stop for that! My business is to love. I found a bird, this morning, down —down—on a little bush at the foot of the garden, and wherefore sing, I said, since nobody hears?
One sob in the throat, one flutter of bosom—“My business is to sing”—and away she rose! How do I know but cherubim, once, themselves, as patient, listened, and applauded her unnoticed hymn?
One of the very few of Emily Dickinson’s verses named by herself was sent Mrs. Bowles soon after the preceding letter.
Teach him, when he makes the names, Such an one to say On his babbling, berry lips As should sound to me— Were my ear as near his nest As my thought, to-day— As should sound—“forbid us not”— Some like “Emily.”
Nature and God, I neither knew, Yet both, so well knew me They startled, like executors Of an identity. Yet neither told, that I could learn; My secret as secure As Herschel’s private interest, Or Mercury’s affair.
DEAR FRIEND,—You remember the little “meeting” we held for you last spring? We met again, Saturday.
‘Twas May when we “adjourned,” but then adjourns are all. The meetings were alike, Mr. Bowles.
The topic did not tire us, so we chose no new. We voted to remember you so long as both should live, including immortality; to count you as ourselves, except sometimes more tenderly, as now, when you are ill, and we, the haler of the two—and so I bring the bond we sign so many times, for you to read when chaos comes, or treason, or decay, still witnessing for morning… . We hope our joy to see you gave of its own degree to you. We pray for your new health, the prayer that goes not down when they shut the church. We offer you our cups—stintless, as to the bee, —the lily, her new liquors.
Would you like summer? Taste of ours. Spices? Buy here! Ill! We have berries, for the parching! Weary! Furloughs of down! Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on! Captive! We bring reprieve of roses! Fainting! Flasks of air! Even for Death, a fairy medicine. But, which is it, sir?
EMILY
I’ll send the feather from my hat! Who knows but at the sight of that My sovereign will relent? As trinket, worn by faded child, Confronting eyes long comforted Blisters the adamant!
EMILY
Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a diver. Her brow is fit for thrones, But I had not a crest. Her heart is fit for rest— I, a sparrow, build there Sweet of twigs and twine, My perennial nest.
1864?
DEAR FRIEND,—How hard to thank you—but the large heart requites itself. Please to need me. I wanted to ask you to receive Mr. Browning from me, but you denied my Brontë—so I did not dare.
Is it too late now? I should like so much to remind you how kind you had been to me.
You could choose—as you did before—if it would not be obnoxious—except where you “measured by your heart,” you should measure this time by mine. I wonder which would be biggest!
Austin told, Saturday morning, that you were not so well. ‘Twas sundown, all day, Saturday—and Sunday such a long bridge no news of you could cross!
Teach us to miss you less because the fear to miss you more haunts us all the time. We didn’t care so much, once. I wish it was then, now, but you kept tightening, so it can’t be stirred to-day. You didn’t mean to be worse, did you? Wasn’t it a mistake?
Won’t you decide soon to be the strong man we first knew? ‘Twould lighten things so much—and yet that man was not so dear—I guess you’d better not.
We pray for you, every night. A homely shrine our knee, but Madonna looks at the heart first.
Dear friend—don’t discourage!
Dear MARY,—I give you only a word this mysterious morning in which we must light the lamps to see each other’s faces, thanking you for the trust too confiding for speech.
You spoke of enclosing the face of your child. As it was not there, forgive me if I tell you, lest even the copy of sweetness abscond; and may I trust you received the flower the mail promised to take you, my foot being incompetent?
The timid mistake about being “forgotten,” shall I caress or reprove? Mr. Samuel’s “sparrow” does not “fall” without the fervent “notice.”
“Would you see us, would Vinnie?” Oh, my doubting Mary! Were you and your brave son in my father’s house, it would require more prowess than mine to resist seeing you.
Shall I still hope for the picture? And please address to my full name, as the little note was detained and opened, the name being so frequent in town, though not an Emily but myself.
Vinnie says “give her my love, and tell her I would delight to see her”; and mother combines.
There should be no tear on your cheek, dear, had my hand the access to brush it away.
Since it snows this morning, dear L——, too fast for interruption, put your brown curls in a basket, and come and sit with me.
I am sewing for Vinnie, and Vinnie is flying through the flakes to buy herself a little hood. It’s quite a fairy morning, and I often lay down my needle, and “build a castle in the air” which seriously impedes the sewing project. What if I pause a little longer, and write a note to you! Who will be the wiser? I have known little of you, since the October morning when our families went out driving, and you and I in the dining-room decided to be distinguished. It’s a great thing to be “great,” L——, and you and I might tug for a life, and never accomplish it, but no one can stop our looking on, and you know some cannot sing, but the orchard is full of birds, and we all can listen. What if we learn, ourselves, some day! Who indeed knows?——said you had many little cares; I hope they do not fatigue you. I would not like to think of L——as weary, now and then. Sometimes I get tired, and I would rather none I love would understand the word… .
Do you still attend Fanny Kemble? “Aaron Burr” and father think her an “animal,” but I fear zoology has few such instances. I have heard many notedly bad readers, and a fine one would be almost a fairy surprise. When will you come again, L——? For you remember, dear, you are one of the ones from whom I do not run away! I keep an ottoman in my heart exclusively for you. My love for your father and F——.
Vinnie was “gone” indeed and is due to-day, and before the tumult that even the best bring we will take hold of hands. It was sweet and antique as birds to hear L——‘s voice, worth the lying awake from five o’clock summer mornings to hear. I rejoice that my wren can rise and touch the sky again. We all have moments with the dust, but the dew is given. Do you wish you heard “A——talk”? Then I would you did, for then you would be here always, a sweet premium. Would you like to “step in the kitchen”? Then you shall by faith, which is the first sight. Mr. C——is not in the tree, because the rooks won’t let him, but I ate a pear as pink as a plum that he made last spring, when he was ogling you. Mother has on the petticoat you so gallantly gathered while he sighed and grafted.
Tabby is eating a stone dinner from a stone plate, … Tim is washing Dick’s feet, and talking to him now and then in an intimate way. Poor fellow, how he warmed when I gave him your message! The red reached clear to his beard, he was so gratified; and Maggie stood as still for hers as a puss for patting. The hearts of these poor people lie so unconcealed you bare them with a smile.
Thank you for recollecting my weakness. I am not so well as to forget I was ever ill, but better and working. I suppose we must all “ail till evening.”
Read Mr. Lowell’s Winter. One does not often meet anything so perfect.
In many little corners how much of L——I have.
Maggie “dragged” the garden for this bud for you. You have heard of the “last rose of summer.” This is that rose’s son.
Into the little port you cannot sail unwelcome at any hour of day or night. Love for F——, and stay close to
DEAR CHILDREN,—I think the bluebirds do their work exactly like me. They dart around just so, with little dodging feet, and look so agitated. I really feel for them, they seem to be so tired.
The mud is very deep—up to the wagons’ stomachs—arbutus making pink clothes, and everything alive.
Even the hens are touched with the things of Bourbon, and make republicans like me feel strangely out of scene.
Mother went rambling, and came in with a burdock on her shawl, so we know that the snow has perished from the earth. Noah would have liked mother.
I am glad you are with Eliza. It is next to shade to know that those we love are cool on a parched day.
Bring my love to——and Mr.——. You will not need a hod. C——writes often, full of joy and liberty. I guess it is a case of peace… .
Pussy has a daughter in the shavings barrel.
Father steps like Cromwell when he gets the kindlings.
Mrs.——gets bigger, and rolls down the lane to church like a reverend marble. Did you know little Mrs. Holland was in Berlin for her eyes? …
Did you know about Mrs. J——? She fledged her antique wings. ‘Tis said that “nothing in her life became her like the leaving it.”
“Great streets of silence led away,” etc.
This little sheet of paper has lain for several years in my Shakespeare, and though it is blotted and antiquated is endeared by its resting-place.
I always think of you peculiarly in May, as it is the peculiar anniversary of your loving kindness to me, though you have always been dear cousins, and blessed me all you could.
I cooked the peaches as. you told me, and they swelled to beautiful fleshy halves and tasted quite magic. The beans we fricasseed and they made a savory cream in cooking that “Aunt Emily” liked to sip. She was always fonder of julep food than of more substantial. Your remembrance of her is very sweetly touching.
Maggie is ironing, and a cotton and linen and ruffle heat makes the pussy’s cheeks red. It is lonely without the birds to-day, for it rains badly, and the little poets have no umbrellas… .
… Fly from Emily’s window for L——. Botanical name unknown.
DEAR FRIEND,—You were so generous to me, that if possible I offended you, I could not too deeply apologize.
To doubt my behavior is a new pain. I could be honorable no more, till I asked you about it. I know not what to deem myself—yesterday “your scholar,” but might I be the one you to-night forgave, ‘tis a better honor. Mine is but just the thief’s request.
Please, sir, hear
… But two had mentioned the “spring” to me—yourself and the Revelations. “I, Jesus, have sent mine angel.”
I inferred your touch in the papers on Lowell and Emerson. It is delicate that each mind is itself, like a distinct bird.
I was lonely there was an “or” in that beautiful “I would go to Amherst,” though grieved for its cause. I wish your friend had my strength, for I don’t care for roving—she perhaps might, though to remain with you is journey.
To abstain from Daniel Deronda is hard—you are very kind to be willing… . I am glad Immortality pleased you. I believed it would. I suppose even God Himself could not withhold that now.
To disappear enhances, The man that runs away Is tinctured for an instant With Immortality.
But yesterday a vagrant, To-day in memory lain With superstitious value— We tamper with again.
But “never” far as honor Withdraws the worthless thing, And impotent to cherish We hasten to adorn.
Of Death the sternest function That just as we discern The excellence defies us— Securest gathered then
The fruit perverse to plucking, But leaning to the sight With the ecstatic limit Of unobtained delight.
In sending a volume of George Eliot to Mrs. Higginson, Emily wrote, “I am bringing you a little granite book to lean on.”
DEAR FRIEND,—When you wrote you would come in November, it would please me it were November then—but the time has moved. You went with the coming of the birds—they will go with your coming, but to see you is so much sweeter than birds, I could excuse the spring.
With the bloom of the flower your friend loved, I have wished for her, but God cannot discontinue Himself.
Mr. Bowles was not willing to die.
When you have lost a friend, Master, you remember you could not begin again, because there was no world. I have thought of you often since the darkness, though we cannot assist another’s night.
I have hoped you were saved.
That those have immortality with whom we talked about it, makes it no more mighty but perhaps more sudden… .
How brittle are the piers On which our faith doth tread— No bridge below doth totter so, Yet none hath such a crowd,
It is as old as God— Indeed, ‘twas built by Him— He sent His son to test the plank, And he pronounced it firm.
I hope you have been well. I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious.
To have seen Stratford on Avon, and the Dresden Madonna, must be almost peace.
And perhaps you have spoken with George Eliot. Will you “tell me about it”? Will you come in November, and will November come, or is this the hope that opens and shuts, like the eye of the wax doll?
DEAR FRIEND,—The temptation to inquire every morning for your sufferer is almost irresistible, but our own invalid taught us that a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend’s knock, timid as that is.
I trust this sweet May morning is not without its peace to your brother and you, though the richest peace is of sorrow.
With constant and fervent anxiousness, and the hope of an early word; please be sure we share your suspense.
DEAR FRIEND,—We have much fear, both for your own strength and the health of your brother, having heard nothing since we last asked, many days ago. Will you not, when possible, gives us but a syllable, even a cheering accent, if no more be true? We think of you and your sufferer with intense anxiety, wishing some act or word of ours might be hope or help. The humming-birds and orioles fly by me as I write, and I long to guide their enchanted feet to your brother’s chamber.
Excuse me for knocking. Please also excuse me for staying so long. Spring is a strange land when our friends are ill.
With my sister’s tenderest alarm, as also my own,
… There would have been no smile on Amherst’s face, had she believed her clergyman’s sweet wife to be suffering, but the paper spoke so obligingly, we thought it an accident that endeared, rather than endangered. That sorrow dare to touch the loved is a mournful insult—we are all avenging it all the time, though as Lowell quotes from the stranger “Live—live even to be unkind.”
It is hard to think of our “little friend” as a sufferer—we, peculiarly, know how hard, through our suffering mother —but the tiniest ones are the mightiest—the wren will prevail…
“Bruised for our iniquities” I had almost feared. Amherst, tell her, suggests her—each of you, my shepherd, and will, while will remains.
The robin is a Gabriel In humble circumstances, His dress denotes him socially Of transport’s working classes. He has the punctuality Of the New England farmer— The same oblique integrity, A vista vastly warmer. A small but sturdy residence, A self-denying household, The guests of perspicacity Are all that cross his threshold. As covert as a fugitive, Cajoling consternation By ditties to the enemy. And sylvan punctuation.
My bird, who is “to-day”?
“Yesterday” was a year ago, and yet
The stem of a departed flower Has still a silent rank, The bearer from an emerald court Of a despatch of pink.
Thank you for the lovely love.
With the leave of the bluebirds, without whose approval we do nothing.
DEAR FRIEND,—To reproach my own foot in behalf of yours is involuntary, and finding meagre19 solace in “whom He loveth He chasteneth,” your valor20 astounds me. It was only a small wasp, said the French physician repairing the sting, but the strength to perish is sometimes withheld—though who but you can21 tell a foot.
Take all away from me But leave me ecstasy, And I am richer then Than all my fellow-men. Is it becoming me To dwell so wealthily, When at my very door Are those possessing more, In abject22 poverty?
That you glance at23 Japan as 24 you breakfast, not in the least surprises me, thronged25 only with music, like the decks26 of birds.
Thank you for hoping I am well. Who could be ill in March, that month of proclamation? Sleighbells and jays contend in my matinée, and the north surrenders instead of the south, a reverse of bugles.
Pity me, however, I have finished Ramona. Would that like Shakespeare it were just published!
Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your foot were intuitive, but I am but a pagan.
Of God we ask one favor, that we may be forgiven. For what, He is presumed to know. The crime, from us, is hidden.
Immured the whole of life Within a magic prison, We reprimand the happiness That too competes with Heaven.
May I once more know, and that you are saved?
DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot make an Indian pipe, but please accept a humming-hird,—
A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head,— The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning’s ride.
When, after her death, the great mass of Emily Dickinson’s verses had been collated and an appropriate drawing for the cover was desired, there seemed a peculiar fitness in this ethereal flower, and the design was cut from the little panel which stood so long in her room.
Many of her most beautiful verses came to me, in the following years; and one autumn day this:—