There’s something quieter than sleep
Within this inner room!
It wears a sprig upon its breast —
And will not tell its name.
Some touch it, and some kiss it —
Some chafe its idle hand —
It has a simple gravity
I do not understand!
I would not weep if I were they —
How rude in one to sob!
Might scare the quiet fairy
Back to her native wood!
While simple-hearted neighbors
Chat of the “Early dead” —
We — prone to periphrasis
Remark that Birds have fled!
C’è qualcosa di più quieto del sonno
Dentro questa stanza interna!
Porta un rametto sul petto —
E non vuol dire il suo nome.
Alcuni lo toccano, altri lo baciano —
Altri sfregano la sua mano inerte —
Ha una semplice gravità
Che io non comprendo!
Io non piangerei, fossi in loro —
Che sgarbo singhiozzare!
Potrebbe spaventare la quieta fata
Ricacciandola al suo bosco natio!
Mentre i vicini dal cuore semplice
Chiacchierano dei “Morti precoci” —
Noi — inclini alla perifrasi
Osserviamo che gli Uccelli son fuggiti!
Taken from men — this morning —
Carried by men today —
Met by the Gods with banners —
Who marshalled her away —
One little maid — from playmates —
One little mind from school —
There must be guests in Eden —
All the rooms are full —
Far — as the East from Even —
Dim — as the border star —
Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms
Our departed are.
Tolta agli uomini — questa mattina —
Portata dagli uomini oggi —
Accolta dagli Dèi con vessilli —
Che la scortarono via —
Una piccola fanciulla — dalle compagne —
Una piccola mente dalla scuola —
Devono esserci ospiti in Eden —
Tutte le stanze sono piene —
Lontani — come l’Est dalla Sera —
Fiochi — come la stella di confine —
Cortigiani bizzarri, in Regni
Sono i nostri defunti.
Delayed till she had ceased to know —
Delayed till in its vest of snow
Her loving bosom lay —
An hour behind the fleeting breath —
Later by just an hour than Death —
Oh lagging Yesterday!
Could she have guessed that it would be —
Could but a crier of the joy
Have climbed the distant hill —
Had not the bliss so slow a pace
Who knows but this surrendered face
Were undefeated still?
Oh if there may departing be
Any forgot by Victory
In her imperial round —
Show them this meek appareled thing
That could not stop to be a king —
Doubtful if it be crowned!
Tardò finché lei cessò di sapere —
Tardò finché nella sua veste di neve
Il suo petto amoroso giacque —
Un’ora dietro il respiro fuggente —
Più tardi d’un’ora appena della Death —
Oh Ieri che t’attardi!
Avesse lei potuto indovinarlo —
Avesse solo un banditore della gioia
Scalato la lontana collina —
Non avesse la beatitudine passo sì lento
Chissà se questo volto arreso
Non sarebbe invitto ancora?
Oh se fra i partenti vi fosse
Qualcuno scordato dalla Vittoria
Nel suo giro imperiale —
Mostrategli questa mite cosa vestita
Che non poté fermarsi a esser re —
Incerta se sia incoronata!
A throe upon the features —
A hurry in the breath —
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated “Death” —
An anguish at the mention
Which when to patience grown,
I’ve known permission given
To rejoin its own.
Uno spasimo sui lineamenti —
Una fretta nel respiro —
Un’estasi di distacco
Denominata “Morte” —
Un’angoscia alla menzione
Che quando in pazienza è cresciuta,
Ho conosciuto il permesso accordato
Di ricongiungersi ai suoi.
Glowing is her Bonnet,
Glowing is her Cheek,
Glowing is her Kirtle,
Yet she cannot speak.
Better as the Daisy
From the Summer hill
Vanish unrecorded
Save by tearful rill —
Save by loving sunrise
Looking for her face.
Save by feet unnumbered
Pausing at the place.
Ardente è la sua Cuffia,
Ardente è la sua Guancia,
Ardente è la sua Gonnella,
Eppure non può parlare.
Meglio come la Margherita
Dall’Estivo colle
Svanire non registrata
Se non dal rivo lacrimoso —
Se non dall’aurora amorosa
Che cerca il suo volto.
Se non da piedi innumerevoli
Che sostano su quel luogo.
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful — as to the village —
Tranquil — as to repose —
Chastened — as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious —
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet —
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew —
Hands bustled at the moorings —
The crown respectful grew —
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference — A Daisy —
Is all the rest I knew!
Salì un anno fa questa sera!
Lo ricordo bene!
Senza campane né evviva
Lo diranno gli astanti!
Lieto — come verso il villaggio —
Tranquillo — come verso il riposo —
Contrito — come verso la Cappella
Questo umile Turista salì!
Non parlò di ritorno!
Non alluse a nessun tempo
In cui, propizi i venti —
Potremmo attenderlo!
Fu grato per le Rose
Nel vario bouquet della vita —
Parlò sommesso di nuove specie
Da cogliere un altro giorno;
Ingannando così lo stupore
Il prodigioso più vicino venne —
Mani s’affaccendarono agli ormeggi —
La corona crebbe rispettosa —
Ascese dalla nostra vista
Verso Volti nuovi!
Una Differenza — Una Margherita —
È tutto il resto che seppi!
Where bells no more affright the morn —
Where scrabble never comes —
Where very nimble Gentlemen
Are forced to keep their rooms —
Where tired Children placid sleep
Thro’ Centuries of noon
This place is Bliss — this town is Heaven —
Please, Pater, pretty soon!
“Oh could we climb where Moses stood,
And view the Landscape o’er”
Not Father’s bells — nor Factories,
Could scare us any more!
Dove campane non spaventano più il mattino —
Dove il trambusto mai non giunge —
Dove Gentiluomini assai svelti
son costretti a restare nelle stanze —
Dove Bimbi stanchi placidi dormono
per Secoli di mezzogiorno
Questo luogo è Beatitudine — questa città è Cielo —
Ti prego, Pater, presto presto!
“Oh potessimo salire dove stette Moses,
e contemplare il Paesaggio intero”
Non le campane del Padre — né le Fabbriche,
potrebbero spaventarci mai più!
If this is “fading”
Oh let me immediately “fade”!
If this is “dying”
Bury me, in such a shroud of red!
If this is “sleep,“
On such a night
How proud to shut the eye!
Good Evening, gentle Fellow men!
Peacock presumes to die!
Se questo è “svanire”
Oh lasciatemi subito “svanire”!
Se questo è “morire”
Seppellitemi, in un tale sudario di rosso!
Se questo è “sonno,“
In una simile notte
Che orgoglio chiudere l’occhio!
Buona Sera, gentili miei Simili!
Il Pavone presume di morire!
Dying! Dying in the night!
Won’t somebody bring the light
So I can see which way to go
Into the everlasting snow?
And “Jesus”! Where is Jesus gone?
They said that Jesus — always came —
Perhaps he doesn’t know the House —
This way, Jesus, Let him pass!
Somebody run to the great gate
And see if Dollie’s coming! Wait!
I hear her feet upon the stair!
Death won’t hurt — now Dollie’s here!
Morire! Morire nella notte!
Non porterà qualcuno la luce
Perché io veda che via prendere
Nella neve eterna?
E “Gesù”! Dov’è andato Gesù?
Dicevano che Gesù — sempre veniva —
Forse non conosce la Casa —
Di qua, Gesù, Fatelo passare!
Qualcuno corra al gran cancello
E veda se Dollie arriva! Aspetta!
Sento i suoi passi sulla scala!
La Morte non farà male — ora che Dollie è qui!
‘T is so much joy ! ‘T is so much joy !
If I should fail, what poverty !
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured upon a throw ;
Have gained! Yes ! Hesitated so
This side the victory !
Life is but life, and death but death !
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 !
È tanta gioia ! È tanta gioia !
Se fallissi, che povertà !
Eppure, povera come sono
Ho azzardato un lancio ;
Ho vinto! Sì ! Tanto ho esitato
Al di qua della vittoria !
La vita è solo vita, e la morte solo morte !
La beatitudine è solo beatitudine e il respiro solo respiro !
E se, davvero, fallisco,
Almeno sapere il peggio è dolce.
La sconfitta non significa che sconfitta,
Nulla di più tetro può prevalere !
E se vinco, — oh, cannone in mare,
Oh, campane che state nei campanili,
Dapprima ripetetelo piano !
Ché il cielo è cosa diversa
Congetturato, e destandovisi d’improvviso,
E potrebbe così sopraffarmi !
‘Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —
So over Horror, it half Captivates —
The Soul stares after it, secure —
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —
To scan a Ghost, is faint —
But grappling, conquers it —
How easy, Torment, now —
Suspense kept sawing so —
The Truth, is Bald, and Cold —
But that will hold —
If any are not sure —
We show them — prayer —
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now —
Looking at Death, is Dying —
Just let go the Breath —
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth —
Others, Can wrestle —
Yours, is done —
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded — come,
It sets the Fright at liberty —
And Terror’s free —
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
È così spaventoso — che esalta —
Così oltre l’Orrore, che quasi Avvince —
L’Anima lo fissa, sicura —
Un Sepolcro, non teme gelo, mai più —
Scrutare uno Spettro, fa svenire —
Ma lottando, lo si vince —
Com’è facile, il Tormento, ora —
La Suspense segava tanto —
La Verità, è Nuda, e Fredda —
Ma quella reggerà —
Se alcuni non sono certi —
Mostriamo loro — la preghiera —
Ma noi, che sappiamo,
Smettiamo di sperare, ora —
Guardare la Morte, è Morire —
Basta lasciar andare il Respiro —
E non il cuscino alla tua Guancia
Così Dorme —
Altri, Possono lottare —
La tua, è compiuta —
E così del Dolore, cupo temuto — venga,
Mette lo Spavento in libertà —
E il Terrore è libero —
Gaia, Spettrale, Festa!
That after Horror — that ‘twas us —
That passed the mouldering Pier —
Just as the Granite Crumb let go —
Our Savior, by a Hair —
A second more, had dropped too deep
For Fisherman to plumb —
The very profile of the Thought
Puts Recollection numb —
The possibility — to pass
Without a Moment’s Bell —
Into Conjecture’s presence —
Is like a Face of Steel —
That suddenly looks into ours
With a metallic grin —
The Cordiality of Death —
Who drills his Welcome in —
Quell’Orrore del dopo — che eravamo noi —
A passare il Molo in sfacelo —
Proprio quando la Briciola di Granito cedette —
Nostro Salvatore, per un Capello —
Un secondo ancora, e caduti troppo a fondo
Perché il Pescatore possa scandagliare —
Il solo profilo del Pensiero
Intorpidisce il Ricordo —
La possibilità — di passare
Senza la Campana d’un Momento —
Alla presenza della Congettura —
È come un Volto d’Acciaio —
Che d’improvviso guarda nel nostro
Con un ghigno metallico —
La Cordialità della Morte —
Che trapana dentro il suo Benvenuto —
A Clock stopped —
Not the Mantel’s —
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing —
That just now dangled still —
An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain —
Then quivered out of Decimals —
Into Degreeless Noon —
It will not stir for Doctors —
This Pendulum of snow —
The Shopman importunes it —
While cool — concernless No —
Nods from the Gilded pointers —
Nods from the Seconds slim —
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life —
And Him —
Un Orologio si fermò —
Non quello della Mensola —
L’arte più remota di Ginevra
Non può far inchinare il burattino —
Che or ora penzolava immoto —
Uno sgomento colse il Gingillo!
Le Figure si curvarono, di pena —
Poi tremando uscirono dai Decimali —
Nel Mezzogiorno senza Gradi —
Non si muoverà per i Dottori —
Questo Pendolo di neve —
Il Bottegaio lo importuna —
Mentre freddo — incurante No —
Annuisce dalle lancette Dorate —
Annuisce dai Secondi sottili —
Decenni d’Arroganza tra
La vita del Quadrante —
E Lui —
Give little Anguish —
Lives will fret —
Give Avalanches —
And they’ll slant —
Straighten — look cautious for their Breath —
But make no syllable — like Death —
Who only shows the Marble Disc —
Sublimer sort — than Speech —
Date poca Angoscia —
Le Vite si crucceranno —
Date Valanghe —
E s’inclineranno —
Si raddrizzeranno — cercando caute il loro Respiro —
Ma senza far sillaba — come la Morte —
Che mostra solo il Disco di Marmo —
Sorta più Sublime — della Parola —
‘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 —
We — are the Birds — that stay.
The Shiverers round Farmers’ doors —
For whose reluctant Crumb —
We stipulate — till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.
Non è che il Morire ci ferisca tanto —
È il Vivere — che ci ferisce di più —
Ma il Morire — è una via diversa —
Una Specie dietro la Porta —
L’Usanza del Sud — dell’Uccello —
Che prima che i Geli siano attesi —
Accetta una Latitudine migliore —
Noi — siamo gli Uccelli — che restano.
I Tremanti alle porte dei Contadini —
Per la cui Briciola riluttante —
Mercanteggiamo — finché Nevi pietose
Persuadono le nostre Piume a Casa.
‘Twas the old — road — through pain —
That unfrequented — one —
With many a turn — and thorn —
That stops — at Heaven —
This — was the Town — she passed —
There — where she — rested — last —
Then — stepped more fast —
The little tracks — close prest —
Then — not so swift —
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow —
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book —
The leaf — at love — turned back —
Her very Hat —
And this worn shoe just fits the track —
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one —
Women make — tonight —
In Chambers bright —
Too out of sight — though —
For our hoarse Good Night —
To touch her Head!
Era la vecchia — strada — attraverso la pena —
Quella infrequentata — quella —
Con molte svolte — e spine —
Che si ferma — al Cielo —
Questa — era la Città — che lei passò —
Là — dove lei — riposò — da ultimo —
Poi — camminò più svelta —
Le piccole orme — strette strette —
Poi — non così rapida —
Piano — piano — come i piedi si facevano — stanchi —
Poi — ferma — nessun’altra orma!
Aspetta! Guarda! Il suo piccolo Libro —
La pagina — all’amore — ripiegata —
Il suo stesso Cappello —
E questa scarpa consunta calza esatta nell’orma —
Lei — però — fuggita!
Un altro letto — uno corto —
Fanno le Donne — stanotte —
In Camere luminose —
Troppo fuori dalla vista — però —
Perché la nostra rauca Buona Notte —
Le tocchi il Capo!
For Death — or rather
For the Things ‘twould buy —
This — put away
Life’s Opportunity —
The Things that Death will buy
Are Room —
Escape from Circumstances —
And a Name —
With Gifts of Life
How Death’s Gifts may compare —
We know not —
For the Rates — lie Here —
Per la Morte — o piuttosto
Per le Cose che comprerebbe —
Questa — mise da parte
L’Opportunità della Vita —
Le Cose che la Morte comprerà
Sono Spazio —
Fuga dalle Circostanze —
E un Nome —
Coi Doni della Vita
Come i Doni della Morte si confrontino —
Non sappiamo —
Ché i Prezzi — stanno Qui —
There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today —
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have — alway —
The Neighbors rustle in and out —
The Doctor — drives away —
A Window opens like a Pod —
Abrupt — mechanically —
Somebody flings a Mattress out —
The Children hurry by —
They wonder if it died — on that —
I used to — when a Boy —
The Minister — goes stiffly in —
As if the House were His —
And He owned all the Mourners — now —
And little Boys — besides —
And then the Milliner — and the Man
Of the Appalling Trade —
To take the measure of the House —
There’ll be that Dark Parade —
Of Tassels — and of Coaches — soon —
It’s easy as a Sign —
The Intuition of the News —
In just a Country Town —
C’è stata una Morte, nella Casa di Fronte,
Non più tardi di Oggi —
Lo so, dallo sguardo intorpidito
Che tali Case hanno — sempre —
I Vicini frusciano dentro e fuori —
Il Dottore — riparte in carrozza —
Una Finestra si apre come un Baccello —
Brusca — meccanicamente —
Qualcuno scaglia fuori un Materasso —
I Bambini passano in fretta —
Si chiedono se è morto — lì sopra —
Lo facevo anch’io — da Ragazzo —
Il Ministro — entra rigido —
Come se la Casa fosse Sua —
E possedesse tutti i Dolenti — ora —
E i Ragazzini — per giunta —
E poi la Modista — e l’Uomo
Del Mestiere Spaventoso —
A prendere la misura della Casa —
Ci sarà quella Scura Parata —
Di Nappe — e di Carrozze — presto —
È facile come un Segno —
L’Intuizione della Notizia —
In una semplice Cittadina di Campagna —
It’s coming — the postponeless Creature —
It gains the Block — and now — it gains the Door —
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings —
Enters — with a “You know Me — Sir”?
Simple Salute — and certain Recognition —
Bold — were it Enemy — Brief — were it friend —
Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle —
And carries one — out of it — to God —
Sta arrivando — la Creatura indilazionabile —
Guadagna l’Isolato — e ora — guadagna la Porta —
Sceglie il suo saliscendi, fra tutte le altre serrature —
Entra — con un “Mi conosce — Signore”?
Semplice Saluto — e certo Riconoscimento —
Audace — fosse Nemico — Breve — fosse amico —
Veste ogni Casa di Crespo, e di Ghiacciolo —
E ne porta uno — fuori — a Dio —
A Visitor in Marl —
Who influences Flowers —
Till they are orderly as Busts —
And Elegant — as Glass —
Who visits in the Night —
And just before the Sun —
Concludes his glistening interview —
Caresses — and is gone —
But whom his fingers touched —
And where his feet have run —
And whatsoever Mouth be kissed —
Is as it had not been —
Un Visitatore in Marna —
Che influenza i Fiori —
Finché sono ordinati come Busti —
Ed Eleganti — come Vetro —
Che fa visita nella Notte —
E appena prima del Sole —
Conclude il suo scintillante colloquio —
Accarezza — e se n’è andato —
Ma ciò che le sue dita hanno toccato —
E dove i suoi piedi hanno corso —
E qualunque Bocca abbia baciato —
È come non fosse mai stata —
Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him —
The Grave is strict —
Tickets admit
Just two — the Bearer —
And the Borne —
And seat — just One —
The Living — tell —
The Dying — but a Syllable —
The Coy Dead — None —
No Chatter — here — no tea —
So Babbler, and Bohea — stay there —
But Gravity — and Expectation — and Fear —
A tremor just, that All’s not sure.
Unità, come la Morte, per Chi?
Vera, come la Tomba,
Che non dice segreto
Detto a Lei —
La Fossa è rigorosa —
I Biglietti ammettono
Solo due — il Portatore —
E il Portato —
E posto — per Uno solo —
I Vivi — parlano —
I Morenti — solo una Sillaba —
I Ritrosi Morti — Nessuno —
Niente Chiacchiere — qui — niente tè —
Dunque Ciarliero, e Bohea — restate là —
Ma Gravità — e Attesa — e Paura —
Un tremito appena, che il Tutto non è certo.
I read my sentence — steadily —
Reviewed it with my eyes,
To see that I made no mistake
In its extremest clause —
The Date, and manner, of the shame —
And then the Pious Form
That “God have mercy” on the Soul
The Jury voted Him —
I made my soul familiar — with her extremity —
That at the last, it should not be a novel Agony —
But she, and Death, acquainted —
Meet tranquilly, as friends —
Salute, and pass, without a Hint —
And there, the Matter ends —
Lessi la mia sentenza — fermamente —
La riesaminai con gli occhi,
Per vedere di non aver fatto errore
Nella sua clausola estrema —
La Data, e il modo, della vergogna —
E poi la Pia Formula
Che “Dio abbia misericordia” dell’Anima
Che la Giuria Gli votò —
Resi la mia anima familiare — con la sua estremità —
Perché alla fine, non fosse un’Agonia nuova —
Ma lei, e la Morte, conoscenti —
S’incontrino tranquille, come amiche —
Si salutino, e passino, senza un Cenno —
E lì, la Faccenda finisce —
Is it dead — Find it —
Out of sound — Out of sight —
“Happy”? Which is wiser —
You, or the Wind?
”Conscious”? Won’t you ask that —
Of the low Ground?
“Homesick”? Many met it —
Even through them — This
Cannot testify —
Themself — as dumb —
È morto — Trovatelo —
Fuori dal suono — Fuori dalla vista —
“Felice”? Chi è più saggio —
Tu, o il Vento?
”Cosciente”? Non vorrai chiederlo —
Alla bassa Terra?
“Nostalgico”? Molti lo incontrarono —
Pur attraverso loro — Questo
Non può testimoniare —
Essi — altrettanto muti —
More Life — went out — when He went
Than Ordinary Breath —
Lit with a finer Phosphor —
Requiring in the Quench —
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live —
For some — an Ampler Zero —
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
Others — extinguish easier —
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen —
Whose Peat lift — amply vivid —
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists —
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose —
Più Vita — se ne andò — quando Egli andò
Che un Ordinario Respiro —
Accesa di un più fine Fosforo —
Che esigeva nello Spegnersi —
Una Potenza di Rinomato Freddo,
Il Clima della Tomba
Una Temperatura appena adeguata
Perché l’Antracite, viva —
Per alcuni — uno Zero più Ampio —
Un Gelo più acuto di un ago
È necessario, per ridurre
L’Etiope che è dentro.
Altri — si estinguono più facilmente —
Il più minuto Ventaglio di un Moscerino
Sufficiente a obliterare
Un Tratto di Cittadino —
Il cui fuoco di Torba — ampiamente vivido —
Ignora la solenne Notizia
Che il Popocatapel esiste —
O gli Scarlatti dell’Etna, Scegli —
—
It don’t sound so terrible — quite — as it did —
I run it over — “Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin — left of my school —
Seems it don’t shriek so — under rule.
Turn it, a little — full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest —
Shift it — just —
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way —
I shall have waded down one Day.”
I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed — but then the Tomb
Like other new Things — shows largest — then —
And smaller, by Habit —
It’s shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance — a Year —
How like “a fit” — then —
Murder — wear!
—
Non suona così terribile — quasi — come prima —
Me lo ripeto — “Morta”, Cervello, “Morta.”
Mettilo in Latino — avanzo di scuola —
Pare non strilli tanto — sotto regola.
Girala, un poco — guardata in piena faccia
Una Pena appare più amara —
Spostala — appena —
Dì “Quando il Domani passerà di qui —
Avrò guadato un Giorno intero.”
Suppongo che m’interromperà un poco
Finché non mi abituo — ma poi la Tomba
Come le altre Cose nuove — appare enorme — allora —
E più piccola, per Abitudine —
È più astuto allora
Porre il Pensiero in anticipo — di un Anno —
Come “un accesso” — allora —
L’Assassinio — indossa!
I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air —
Between the Heaves of Storm —
The Eyes around — had wrung them dry —
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset — when the King
Be witnessed — in the Room —
I willed my Keepsakes — Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable — and then it was
There interposed a Fly —
With Blue — uncertain stumbling Buzz —
Between the light — and me —
And then the Windows failed — and then
I could not see to see—
Udii ronzare una Mosca — quando morii —
La Quiete nella Stanza
Era come la Quiete nell’Aria —
Tra i Sussulti della Tempesta —
Gli Occhi intorno — li avevano spremuti asciutti —
E i Respiri si serravano saldi
Per quell’ultimo Assalto — quando il Re
Fosse testimoniato — nella Stanza —
Legai i miei Ricordi — Cedetti con firma
Quale porzione di me fosse
Assegnabile — e fu allora che
S’interpose una Mosca —
Con Azzurro — incerto inciampante Ronzio —
Tra la luce — e me —
E poi le Finestre mancarono — e poi
Non potevo vedere per vedere—
The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die —
‘Tis deemed a privilege to choose —
‘Twas Major Andre’s Way —
When Choice of Life — is past —
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate —
How small in those who live —
The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles —
How “they are Dying mostly — now” —
And Customs at “St. James”!
Il Modo della sua Morte
Quando è Certo che deve morire —
Si stima privilegio sceglierlo —
Fu la Via del Maggiore Andre —
Quando la Scelta della Vita — è passata —
Resta ancora un Amore
A stipulare il suo piccolo Fato —
Com’è piccolo in coloro che vivono —
Il Miracolo di stuzzicare
Con Ciance di stili —
Come “muoiono per lo più — adesso” —
E le Usanze a “St. James”!
Doom is the House without the Door —
‘Tis entered from the Sun —
And then the Ladder’s thrown away,
Because Escape — is done —
‘Tis varied by the Dream
Of what they do outside —
Where Squirrels play — and Berries die —
And Hemlocks — bow — to God —
Il Destino è la Casa senza la Porta —
Vi si entra dal Sole —
E poi la Scala è gettata via,
Perché la Fuga — è compiuta —
È variato dal Sogno
Di ciò che fanno fuori —
Dove giocano gli Scoiattoli — e muoiono le Bacche —
E le Tsughe — s’inchinano — a Dio —
‘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 —
The busy eyes — congealed —
It straightened — that was all —
It crowded Cold to Cold —
It multiplied indifference —
As Pride were all it could —
And even when with Cords —
‘Twas lowered, like a Weight —
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.
Era caldo — al principio — come Noi —
Finché vi strisciò sopra
Un Freddo — come brina su un Vetro —
Finché tutta la scena — svanì.
La Fronte copiò la Pietra —
Le Dita divennero troppo fredde
Per dolere — e come il Ruscello d’un Pattinatore —
Gli occhi operosi — si rappresero —
Si irrigidì — questo fu tutto —
Serrò Freddo contro Freddo —
Moltiplicò indifferenza —
Come se l’Orgoglio fosse tutto il suo potere —
E perfino quando con Corde —
Fu calato, come un Peso —
Non fece Segnale, né obiettò,
Ma cadde come Adamante.
I’m sorry for the Dead — Today —
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences —
It’s time o’ year for Hay.
And Broad — Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil —
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile —
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields —
The Busy Carts — the fragrant Cocks —
The Mower’s Metre — Steals —
A Trouble lest they’re homesick —
Those Farmers — and their Wives —
Set separate from the Farming —
And all the Neighbors’ lives —
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don’t feel a lonesome way —
When Men — and Boys — and Carts — and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay” —
Mi dispiacciono i Morti — Oggi —
Sono tempi così cordiali
Quelli dei Vecchi Vicini alle staccionate —
È tempo d’anno da Fieno.
E Larghe — Conoscenze Arse dal Sole
Discorrono fra la Fatica —
E ridono, specie casalinga
Che fa sorridere le Staccionate —
Pare così arduo giacere lontani
Da tutto il rumore dei Campi —
I Carri Affaccendati — i fragranti Covoni —
Il Metro del Falciatore — Scivola via —
Un Cruccio che abbiano nostalgia —
Quei Contadini — e le loro Mogli —
Messi in disparte dai Lavori dei campi —
E da tutte le vite dei Vicini —
Uno Stupore se il Sepolcro
Non provi un senso di solitudine —
Quando Uomini — e Ragazzi — e Carri — e Giugno,
Scendono nei Campi a “Far Fieno” —
Death is potential to that Man
Who dies — and to his friend —
Beyond that — unconspicuous
To Anyone but God —
Of these Two — God remembers
The longest — for the friend —
Is integral — and therefore
Itself dissolved — of God —
La Morte è potenziale per quell’Uomo
Che muore — e per il suo amico —
Oltre ciò — inavvertita
Da Chiunque tranne Dio —
Di questi Due — Dio ricorda
Più a lungo — perché l’amico —
È parte integrante — e perciò
Esso stesso dissolto — di Dio —
A Dying Tiger — moaned for Drink —
I hunted all the Sand —
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand —
His Mighty Balls — in death were thick —
But searching — I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water — and of me —
‘Twas not my blame — who sped too slow —
‘Twas not his blame — who died
While I was reaching him —
But ‘twas — the fact that He was dead —
Una Tigre Morente — gemeva per Bere —
Frugai tutta la Sabbia —
Colsi lo Stillicidio d’una Roccia
E lo portai nella mia Mano —
I suoi Possenti Globi — nella morte erano torbidi —
Ma cercando — potei vedere
Una Visione sulla Retina
D’Acqua — e di me —
Non fu colpa mia — che accorsi troppo lenta —
Non fu colpa sua — che morì
Mentre lo raggiungevo —
Ma fu — il fatto che Egli era morto —
Glee ! the great storm is over !
Four have recovered the land ;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.
Ring, for the scant salvation !
Toll, for the bonnie souls, —
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals !
How they will tell the shipwreck
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, “But the forty ?
Did they come back no more ?”
Then a silence suffuses the story,
And a softness the teller’s eye ;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.
Gioia ! la grande tempesta è passata !
Quattro hanno riguadagnato la terra ;
Quaranta scesi insieme
Nella sabbia ribollente.
Suonate, per la scarsa salvezza !
Rintoccate, per le care anime, —
Vicino e amico e sposo,
Che vorticano sui bassifondi !
Come racconteranno il naufragio
Quando l’inverno scuote la porta,
Finché i bambini chiedano : “Ma i quaranta ?
Non tornarono mai più ?”
Allora un silenzio pervade la storia,
E una dolcezza l’occhio del narratore ;
E i bambini non domandano oltre,
E solo le onde rispondono.
A first Mute Coming —
In the Stranger’s House —
A first fair Going —
When The [[Bells|the Bells]] rejoice —
A first Exchange — of
What hath mingled — been —
For Lot — exhibited to
Faith — alone —
Un primo Muto Venire —
Nella Casa dello Straniero —
Un primo bell’Andare —
Quando The [[Bells|le Campane]] gioiscono —
Un primo Scambio — di
Ciò che mescolato — è stato —
Per la Sorte — esibita alla
Fede — soltanto —
Life, and Death, and Giants —
Such as These — are still —
Minor — Apparatus — Hopper of the Mill —
Beetle at the Candle —
Or a Fife’s Fame —
Maintain — by Accident that they proclaim —
Vita, e Morte, e Giganti —
Quali Questi — son quieti —
Minori — Apparati — Tramoggia del Mulino —
Scarabeo alla Candela —
O Fama d’un Piffero —
Si mantengono — per l’Accidente che proclamano —
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 strove
At recess—in the ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—‘tis centuries— and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—
Perché non potevo fermarmi per la Morte—
Lei gentile si fermò per me—
La Carrozza portava noi Due soltanto—
E l’Immortalità.
Andavamo piano—non conosceva fretta,
E io avevo messo via
Il mio lavoro e anche il mio ozio,
Per la Sua Cortesia—
Passammo la Scuola, dove i Bambini si affannavano
Nell’intervallo—in cerchio—
Passammo i Campi di Grano Attonito—
Passammo il Sole Calante—
O piuttosto—Lui passò Noi—
Le Rugiade scesero tremule e fredde—
Ché solo Garza, la mia Veste—
La mia Mantellina—solo Tulle—
Sostammo davanti a una Casa che pareva
Un Rigonfio del Suolo—
Il Tetto era appena visibile—
Il Cornicione—nel Suolo—
Da allora—son secoli— eppure
Sembra più breve del Giorno
In cui intuii che le Teste dei Cavalli
Volgevano all’Eternità—
I meant to find Her when I came —
Death — had the same design —
But the Success — was His — it seems —
And the Surrender — Mine —
I meant to tell Her how I longed
For just this single time —
But Death had told Her so the first —
And she had past, with Him —
To wander — now — is my Repose —
To rest — To rest would be
A privilege of Hurricane
To Memory — and Me.
Volevo trovarLa quando venni —
La Morte — aveva lo stesso disegno —
Ma il Successo — fu Suo — sembra —
E la Resa — Mia —
Volevo dirLe quanto anelavo
Solo a quest’unico istante —
Ma la Morte gliel’aveva detto prima —
Ed ella era passata, con Lui —
Vagare — ora — è il mio Riposo —
Riposare — Riposare sarebbe
Un privilegio da Uragano
Per la Memoria — e per Me.
Upon Concluded Lives
There’s nothing cooler falls —
Than Life’s sweet Calculations —
The mixing Bells and Palls —
Make Lacerating Tune —
To Ears the Dying Side —
‘Tis Coronal — and Funeral —
Saluting — in the Road —
Su Vite Concluse
Nulla cade più freddo —
Dei dolci Calcoli della Vita —
Il mischiarsi di Campane e Drappi —
Fanno Melodia Lacerante —
Per Orecchie dal Lato dei Morenti —
È Corona — e Funerale —
Che si salutano — nella Strada —
All but Death, can be Adjusted —
Dynasties repaired —
Systems — settled in their Sockets —
Citadels — dissolved —
Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —
Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —
Tutto fuorché la Morte, si può Aggiustare —
Dinastie riparate —
Sistemi — rimessi nei loro Alveoli —
Cittadelle — dissolte —
Sprechi di Vite — riseminati a Colori
Dalle Primavere Successive —
La Morte — a se stessa — Eccezione —
È esente dal Mutamento —
This that would greet — an hour ago —
Is quaintest Distance — now —
Had it a Guest from Paradise —
Nor glow, would it, nor bow —
Had it a notice from the Noon
Nor beam would it nor warm —
Match me the Silver Reticence —
Match me the Solid Calm —
Questo che avrebbe salutato — un’ora fa —
È la più strana Distanza — adesso —
Avesse un Ospite dal Paradiso —
Né arderebbe, né s’inchinerebbe —
Avesse un annuncio dal Mezzogiorno
Né raggerebbe né scalderebbe —
Eguagliatemi l’Argentea Reticenza —
Eguagliatemi la Salda Calma —
Dying! To be afraid of thee
One must to thine Artillery
Have left exposed a Friend —
Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
Delivered straighter to the Heart
The leaving Love behind.
Not for itself, the Dust is shy,
But, enemy, Beloved be
Thy Batteries divorce.
Fight sternly in a Dying eye
Two Armies, Love and Certainty
And Love and the Reverse.
Morire! Per avere paura di te
Si deve alla tua Artiglieria
Aver lasciato esposto un Amico —
Più che la tua vecchia Freccia è un Colpo
Recapitato più diritto al Cuore
Il lasciare indietro l’Amore.
Non per sé, la Polvere è schiva,
Ma, nemico, Amato sia
Delle tue Batterie il divorzio.
Combattono severe in un occhio Morente
Due Armate, l’Amore e la Certezza
E l’Amore e il suo Contrario.
Color — Caste — Denomination —
These — are Time’s Affair —
Death’s diviner Classifying
Does not know they are —
As in sleep — All Hue forgotten —
Tenets — put behind —
Death’s large — Democratic fingers
Rub away the Brand —
If Circassian — He is careless —
If He put away
Chrysalis of Blonde — or Umber —
Equal Butterfly —
They emerge from His Obscuring —
What Death — knows so well —
Our minuter intuitions —
Deem unplausible —
Colore — Casta — Confessione —
Queste — son Faccende del Tempo —
Il Classificare più divino della Morte
Non sa che esistano —
Come nel sonno — ogni Tinta scordata —
Dottrine — messe da parte —
Le grandi — Democratiche dita della Morte
Cancellano il Marchio —
Se Circasso — Egli è incurante —
Se Egli ripone
Crisalide di Biondo — o di Terra d’ombra —
Uguale Farfalla —
Emergono dal Suo Oscurare —
Ciò che la Morte — sa così bene —
Le nostre più minute intuizioni —
Giudicano inverosimile —
Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
”Dissolve,” says Death. The Spirit, “Sir,
I have another trust.”
Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
La Morte è un dialogo fra
lo spirito e la polvere.
”Dissolviti,” dice la Morte. Lo Spirito, “Signore,
io ho un’altra fiducia.”
La Morte ne dubita, argomenta dal suolo.
Lo Spirito si volge altrove,
Deponendo appena, per prova,
Un soprabito d’argilla.
The Dying need but little, Dear,
A Glass of Water’s all,
A Flower’s unobtrusive Face
To punctuate the Wall,
A Fan, perhaps, a Friend’s Regret
And Certainty that one
No color in the Rainbow
Perceive, when you are gone.
Ai Morenti serve ben poco, Cara,
un Bicchiere d’Acqua è tutto,
il Volto discreto d’un Fiore
a punteggiare il Muro,
un Ventaglio, forse, il Rimpianto d’un Amico
e la Certezza che alcuno
nessun colore nell’Arcobaleno
percepisca, quando te ne sei andata.
Said Death to Passion
”Give of thine an Acre unto me.”
Said Passion, through contracting Breaths
”A Thousand Times Thee Nay.”
Bore Death from Passion
All His East
He — sovereign as the Sun
Resituated in the West
And the Debate was done.
Disse la Morte alla Passione
”Dammi del tuo un Acro.”
Disse la Passione, tra Respiri contratti
”Mille Volte a Te No.”
Tolse la Morte alla Passione
Tutto il Suo Oriente
Lui — sovrano come il Sole
Si ristabilì a Occidente
E il Dibattito fu concluso.
Let down the Bars, Oh Death —
The tired Flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat
Whose wandering is done —
Thine is the stillest night
Thine the securest Fold
Too near Thou art for seeking Thee
Too tender, to be told.
Abbassa le Sbarre, O Morte —
Le stanche Greggi rientrano
Il cui belato cessa di ripetersi
Il cui vagare è compiuto —
Tua è la più quieta notte
Tuo il più sicuro Ovile
Troppo vicina Sei perché Ti si cerchi
Troppo tenera, per esser detta.
The Frost of Death was on the Pane —
“Secure your Flower” said he.
Like Sailors fighting with a Leak
We fought Mortality.
Our passive Flower we held to Sea —
To Mountain — To the Sun —
Yet even on his Scarlet shelf
To crawl the Frost begun —
We pried him back
Ourselves we wedged
Himself and her between,
Yet easy as the narrow Snake
He forked his way along
Till all her helpless beauty bent
And then our wrath begun —
We hunted him to his Ravine
We chased him to his Den —
We hated Death and hated Life
And nowhere was to go —
Than Sea and continent there is
A larger — it is Woe —
Il Gelo della Morte era sul Vetro —
“Metti al sicuro il tuo Fiore” disse.
Come Marinai in lotta con una Falla
Combattemmo la Mortalità.
Il nostro Fiore passivo tenemmo verso il Mare —
Verso il Monte — Verso il Sole —
Ma perfino sul suo Scarlatto scaffale
A strisciare il Gelo cominciò —
Lo forzammo indietro
Noi stessi ci incuneammo
Fra lui e lei,
Ma facile come lo stretto Serpente
Biforcò la sua via avanzando
Finché tutta la sua inerme bellezza si piegò
E allora la nostra ira cominciò —
Lo cacciammo fino al suo Burrone
Lo inseguimmo fino alla sua Tana —
Odiammo la Morte e odiammo la Vita
E non v’era dove andare —
Di Mare e continente esiste
Un più vasto — è il Dolore —
Great Streets of silence led away
To Neighborhoods of Pause —
Here was no Notice — no Dissent
No Universe — no laws —
By Clocks, ‘twas Morning, and for Night
The Bells at Distance called —
But Epoch had no basis here
For Period exhaled.
Grandi Strade di silenzio conducevano via
Verso Contrade di Sosta —
Qui nessun Avviso — nessun Dissenso
Nessun Universo — nessuna legge —
Per gli Orologi era Mattino, e per la Notte
Le Campane a Distanza chiamavano —
Ma l’Epoca non aveva base qui
Ché il Periodo era esalato.
The Frost was never seen —
If met, too rapid passed,
Or in too unsubstantial Team —
The Flowers notice first
A Stranger hovering round
A Symptom of alarm
In Villages remotely set
But search effaces him
Till some retrieveless Night
Our Vigilance at waste
The Garden gets the only shot
That never could be traced.
Unproved is much we know —
Unknown the worst we fear —
Of Strangers is the Earth the Inn
Of Secrets is the Air —
To analyze perhaps
A Philip would prefer
But Labor vaster than myself
I find it to infer.
Il Gelo non fu mai visto —
Se incontrato, passò troppo rapido,
O in Tiro troppo inconsistente —
I Fiori se ne accorgono per primi
Un Estraneo che aleggia intorno
Un Sintomo d’allarme
In Villaggi remotamente posti
Ma il cercarlo lo cancella
Finché in qualche irrecuperabile Notte
La nostra Vigilanza sprecata
Il Giardino riceve l’unico colpo
Che mai si poté rintracciare.
Non provato è molto che sappiamo —
Ignoto il peggio che temiamo —
Di Estranei è la Terra la Locanda
Di Segreti è l’Aria —
Analizzare forse
Un Filippo preferirebbe
Ma Fatica più vasta di me
Trovo l’inferire.
It came at last but prompter Death
Had occupied the House —
His pallid Furniture arranged
And his metallic Peace —
Oh faithful Frost that kept the Date
Had Love as punctual been
Delight had aggrandized the Gate
And blocked the coming in.
Venne alfine ma più sollecita Morte
Aveva occupato la Casa —
Il suo pallido Mobilio disposto
E la sua metallica Pace —
Oh fedele Gelo che mantenne la Data
Fosse stato Amore altrettanto puntuale
La Delizia avrebbe ingrandito il Cancello
E sbarrato l’entrare.
Death’s Waylaying not the sharpest
Of the thefts of Time —
There Marauds a sorer Robber,
Silence — is his name —
No Assault, nor any Menace
Doth betoken him.
But from Life’s consummate Cluster —
He supplants the Balm.
L’Agguato della Morte non è il più affilato
Dei furti del Tempo —
Lì saccheggia un Ladro più crudele,
Silenzio — è il suo nome —
Nessun Assalto, né alcuna Minaccia
Lo preannuncia.
Ma dal Grappolo compiuto della Vita —
Egli soppianta il Balsamo.
That short — potential stir
That each can make but once —
That Bustle so illustrious
’Tis almost Consequence —
Is the eclat of Death —
Oh, thou unknown Renown
That not a Beggar would accept
Had he the power to spurn —
Quel breve — potenziale fremito
Che ognuno può fare una volta sola —
Quel Trambusto così illustre
Da essere quasi Conseguenza —
È l’eclat della Morte —
Oh, tu Rinomanza ignota
Che non un Mendicante accetterebbe
Avesse il potere di sdegnarla —
“Secrets” is a daily word
Yet does not exist —
Muffled — it remits surmise —
Murmured — it has ceased —
Dungeoned in the Human Breast
Doubtless secrets lie —
But that Grate inviolate —
Goes nor comes away
Nothing with a Tongue or Ear —
Secrets stapled there
Will emerge but once — and dumb —
To the Sepulchre —
“Segreti” è parola quotidiana
Eppure non esiste —
Attutita — rimette la congettura —
Mormorata — è già cessata —
Segregati nel Petto Umano
Di certo giacciono segreti —
Ma da quella Grata inviolata —
Non va né viene via
Nulla che abbia Lingua od Orecchio —
Segreti lì inchiodati
Emergeranno una volta sola — e muti —
Verso il Sepolcro —
I shall not murmur if at last
The ones I loved below
Permission have to understand
For what I shunned them so —
Divulging it would rest my Heart
But it would ravage theirs —
Why, Katie, Treason has a Voice —
But mine — dispels — in Tears.
Non mormorerò se infine
Quelli che amai quaggiù
Avranno il permesso di capire
Perché tanto li sfuggii —
Rivelarlo darebbe quiete al mio Cuore
Ma devasterebbe i loro —
Ebbene, Katie, il Tradimento ha una Voce —
Ma la mia — si dissolve — in Lacrime.
A chilly Peace infests the Grass
The Sun respectful lies —
Not any Trance of industry
These shadows scrutinize —
Whose Allies go no more astray
For service or for Glee —
But all mankind deliver here
From whatsoever sea —
Una gelida Pace infesta l’Erba
Il Sole rispettoso giace —
Nessuna Trance d’operosità
Scrutano queste ombre —
I cui Alleati più non vagano
Per servizio o per Gioia —
Ma tutto il genere umano recano qui
Da qualsivoglia mare —
Death is the supple Suitor
That wins at last —
It is a stealthy Wooing
Conducted first
By pallid innuendoes
And dim approach
But brave at last with Bugles
And a bisected Coach
It bears away in triumph
To Troth unknown
And Kindred as responsive
As Porcelain.
La Morte è il Pretendente duttile
Che vince alla fine —
È un Corteggiare furtivo
Condotto dapprima
Da pallide allusioni
E fioco approccio
Ma audace alla fine con Trombe
E una Carrozza bipartita
Porta via in trionfo
Verso Promessa ignota
E Parenti tanto sensibili
Quanto Porcellana.
My Wars are laid away in Books —
I have one Battle more —
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o’er —
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best — Neglecting me — till
All the rest, have died —
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away —
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity —
Le mie Guerre son riposte nei Libri —
Mi resta una Battaglia ancora —
Un Nemico che non ho mai visto
Ma che spesso mi ha squadrata —
E ha esitato fra me
E altri al mio fianco,
Ma scelse il migliore — Trascurando me — finché
Tutti gli altri, son morti —
Che dolcezza se non sarò scordata
Dai Compagni trapassati —
Poiché Compagni di gioco a settant’anni
Sono una tale rarità —
Of Death I try to think like this —
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us —
I do remember when a Child
With bolder Playmates straying
To where a Brook that seemed a Sea
Withheld us by its roaring
From just the Purple Flower beyond
Until constrained to clutch it
If Doom itself were the result,
The boldest leaped, and clutched it —
Di Morte provo a pensare così —
Il Pozzo in cui ci depongono
Non è che la Sembianza del Ruscello
Che non minacciava di ucciderci,
Ma d’invitare con quello Sgomento
Che è il Gusto della dolcezza
Verso lo stesso Fiore Esperio,
Adescando solo per accoglierci —
Ricordo bene quando da Bambina
Vagando con Compagni più audaci
Fin dove un Ruscello che pareva un Mare
Ci tratteneva col suo fragore
Proprio dal Fiore Purpureo di là
Finché costretti a ghermirlo
Fosse il Destino stesso l’esito,
Il più audace balzò, e lo ghermì —
The Auctioneer of Parting
His “Going, going, gone”
Shouts even from the Crucifix,
And brings his Hammer down —
He only sells the Wilderness,
The prices of Despair
Range from a single human Heart
To Two — not any more —
Il Banditore del Distacco
Il suo “Va’, va’, andato”
Grida perfino dal Crocifisso,
E cala il suo Martello —
Vende soltanto il Deserto,
I prezzi della Disperazione
Vanno da un solo Cuore umano
A Due — non di più —
No Life can pompless pass away —
The lowliest career
To the same Pageant wends its way
As that exalted here —
How cordial is the mystery!
The hospitable Pall
A “this way” beckons spaciously —
A Miracle for all!
Nessuna Vita può trapassare senza pompa —
La più umile carriera
Verso lo stesso Corteo si avvia
Di quella qui esaltata —
Com’è cordiale il mistero!
L’ospitale Drappo funebre
Un “per di qua” accenna con ampiezza —
Un Miracolo per tutti!
Upon the gallows hung a wretch,
Too sullied for the hell
To which the law entitled him.
As nature’s curtain fell
The one who bore him tottered in , —
For this was woman’s son.
”’Twere all I had,” she stricken gasped —
Oh, what a livid boon!
Sulla forca pendeva uno sciagurato,
Troppo sozzo per l’inferno
Cui la legge gli dava diritto.
Mentre calava il sipario della natura
Colei che lo generò entrò barcollando , —
Perché questo era figlio di donna.
”Era tutto ciò che avevo,” ansimò straziata —
Oh, che livido dono!
The next letter was written three years later, and sent to Boston.
DEAR SISTER,—After you went, a low wind warbled through the house like a spacious bird, making it high but lonely. When you had gone the love came. I supposed it would. The supper of the heart is when the guest has gone.
Shame is so intrinsic in a strong affection we must all experience Adam’s reticence. I suppose the street that the lover travels is thenceforth divine, incapable of turnpike aims.
That you be with me annuls fear and I await Commencement with merry resignation. Smaller than David you clothe me with extreme Goliath.
Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A circus passed the house—still I feel the red in my mind though the drums are out.
The book you mention, I have not met. Thank you for tenderness.
The lawn is full of south and the odors tangle, and I hear to-day for the first the river in the tree.
You mentioned spring’s delaying—I blamed her for the opposite. I would eat evanescence slowly.
Vinnie is deeply afflicted in the death of her dappled cat, though I convince her it is immortal which assists her some. Mother resumes lettuce, involving my transgression—suggestive of yourself, however, which endears disgrace.
“House” is being “cleaned.” I prefer pestilence. That is more classic and less fell.
Yours was my first arbutus. It was a rosy boast.
I will send you the first witch hazel.
A woman died last week, young and in hope but a little while—at the end of our garden. I thought since of the power of Death, not upon affection, but its mortal signal. It is to us the Nile.
You refer to the unpermitted delight to be with those we love. I suppose that to be the license not granted of God.
Count not that far that can be had, Though sunset lie between— Nor that adjacent, that beside, Is further than the sun.
Love for your embodiment of it.
DEAR HOLLANDS,—Belong to me! We have no fires yet, and the evenings grow cold. To-morrow, stoves are set. How many barefoot shiver I trust their Father knows who saw not fit to give them shoes.
Vinnie is sick to-night, which gives the world a russet tinge, usually so red. It is only a headache, but when the head aches next to you, it becomes important. When she is well, time leaps. When she is ill, he lags, or stops entirely.
Sisters are brittle things. God was penurious with me, which makes me shrewd with Him.
One is a dainty sum! One bird, one cage, one flight; one song in those far woods, as yet suspected by faith only!
This is September, and you were coming in September. Come! Our parting is too long. There has been frost enough. We must have summer now, and “whole legions” of daisies.
The gentian is a greedy flower, and overtakes us all. Indeed, this world is short, and I wish, until I tremble, to touch the ones I love before the hills are red—are gray—are white—are “born again”! If we knew how deep the crocus lay, we never should let her go. Still, crocuses stud many mounds whose gardeners till in anguish some tiny, vanished bulb.
We saw you that Saturday afternoon, but heedlessly forgot to ask where you were going, so did not know, and could not write. Vinnie saw Minnie flying by, one afternoon at Palmer. She supposed you were all there on your way from the sea, and untied her fancy! To say that her fancy wheedled her is superfluous.
We talk of you together, then diverge on life, then hide in you again, as a safe fold. Don’t leave us long, dear friends! You know we’re children still, and children fear the dark.
Are you well at home? Do you work now? Has it altered much since I was there? Are the children women, and the women thinking it will soon be afternoon? We will help each other bear our unique burdens.
Is Minnie with you now? Take her our love, if she is. Do her eyes grieve her now? Tell her she may have half ours.
Mother’s favorite sister is sick, and mother will have to bid her good-night. It brings mists to us all;—the aunt whom Vinnie visits, with whom she spent, I fear, her last inland Christmas. Does God take care of those at sea? My aunt is such a timid woman!
Will you write to us? I bring you all their loves—many.
They tire me.
DEAR SISTER,—Father called to say that our steelyard was fraudulent, exceeding by an ounce the rates of honest men. He had been selling oats. I cannot stop smiling, though it is hours since, that even our steelyard will not tell the truth.
Besides wiping the dishes for Margaret, I wash them now, while she becomes Mrs. Lawler, vicarious papa to four previous babes. Must she not be an adequate bride?
I winced at her loss, because I was in the habit of her, and even a new rolling-pin has an embarrassing element, but to all except anguish, the mind soon adjusts.
It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sundowns sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.——is still with the sister who put her child in an ice nest last Monday forenoon. The redoubtable God! I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, making it desirable to forestall his advances.
It is hard to be told by the papers that a friend is failing, not even know where the water lies. Incidentally, only, that he comes to land. Is there no voice for these? Where is Love to-day?
Tell the dear Doctor we mention him with a foreign accent, party already to transactions spacious and untold. Nor have we omitted to breathe shorter for our little sister. Sharper than dying is the death for the dying’s sake.
News of these would comfort, when convenient or possible.
DEAR SISTER,—It was incredibly sweet that Austin had seen you, and had stood in the dear house which had lost its friend. To see one who had seen you was a strange assurance. It helped dispel the fear that you departed too, for notwithstanding the loved notes and the lovely gift, there lurked a dread that you had gone or would seek to go. “Where the treasure is,” there is the prospective.
Austin spoke very warmly and strongly of you, and we all felt firmer, and drew a vocal portrait of Kate at Vinnie’s request, so vivid that we saw her… .
Not all die early, dying young, Maturity of fate Is consummated equally In ages or a night. A hoary boy I’ve known to drop Whole-statured, by the side Of junior of fourscore—‘t was act, Not period, that died.
Miss Lavinia Dickinson, was visiting her cousins when their mother died, and Emily’s letter to her sister at that time seems more appropriate here than in any other connection: —
VINNIE,—I can’t believe it, when your letters come, saying what Aunt L——said “just before she died.” Blessed Aunt L——now; all the world goes out, and I see nothing but her room, and angels bearing her into those great countries in the blue sky of which we don’t know anything.
Then I sob and cry till I can hardly see my way ‘round the house again; and then sit still and wonder if she sees us now, if she sees me, who said that she “loved Emily.” Oh! Vinnie, it is dark and strange to think of summer afterward! How she loved the summer! The birds keep singing just the same. Oh! The thoughtless birds!
Poor little L——! Poor F——! You must comfort them!
If you were with me, Vinnie, we could talk about her together.
And I thought she would live! I wanted her to live so, I thought she could not die! To think how still she lay while I was making the little loaf, and fastening her flowers! Did you get my letter in time to tell her how happy I would be to do what she requested? Mr. Brady is coming to-morrow to bring arbutus for her. Dear little aunt! Will she look down?
You must tell me all you can think about her. Did she carry my little bouquet? So many broken-hearted people have got to hear the birds sing, and see all the little flowers grow, just the same as if the sun hadn’t stopped shining forever! … How I wish I could comfort you! How I wish you could comfort me, who weep at what I did not see and never can believe. I will try and share you a little longer, but it is so long, Vinnie.
We didn’t think, that morning when I wept that you left me, and you, for other things, that we should weep more bitterly before we saw each other.
Well, she is safer now than “we know or even think.” Tired little aunt, sleeping ne’er so peaceful! Tuneful little aunt, singing, as we trust, hymns than which the robins have no sweeter ones.
Good-night, broken hearts, L——, and F——, and Uncle L——. Vinnie, remember
DEAR PEACOCK,—I received your feather with profound emotion. It has already surmounted a work, and crossed the Delaware. Doubtless you are moulting à la canary bird —hope you will not suffer from the reduction of plumage these December days. The latitude is quite stiff for a few nights, and gentlemen and ladies who go barefoot in our large cities must find the climate uncomfortable. A land of frosts and zeros is not precisely the land for me; hope you find it congenial. I believe it is several hundred years since I met you and F——, yet I am pleased to say, you do not become dim; I think you rather brighten as the hours fly. I should love to see you dearly, girls; perhaps I may, before south winds, but I feel rather confused to-day, and the future looks “higglety-pigglety.”
You seem to take a smiling view of my finery. If you knew how solemn it was to me, you might be induced to curtail your jests. My sphere is doubtless calicoes, nevertheless I thought it meet to sport a little wool. The mirth it has occasioned will deter me from further exhibitions! Won’t you tell “the public” that at present I wear a brown dress with a cape if possible browner, and carry a parasol of the same! We have at present one cat, and twenty-four hens, who do nothing so vulgar as lay an egg, which checks the ice-cream tendency.
I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much attached to a trotting world.
My garden is all covered up by snow; picked gilliflower Tuesday, now gilliflowers are asleep. The hills take off their purple frocks, and dress in long white nightgowns.
There is something fine and something sad in the year’s toilet… .
We often talk of you and your father these new winter days. Write, dear, when you feel like it.
What shall I tell these darlings except that my father and mother are half their father and mother, and my home half theirs, whenever, and for as long as, they will. And sometimes a dearer thought than that creeps into my mind, but it is not for to-night. Wasn’t dear papa so tired always after mamma went, and wasn’t it almost sweet to think of the two together these new winter nights? The grief is our side, darlings, and the glad is theirs. Vinnie and I sit down to-night, while mother tells what makes us cry, though we know it is well and easy with uncle and papa, and only our part hurts. Mother tells how gently he looked on all who looked at him—how he held his bouquet sweet, as he were a guest in a friend’s parlor and must still do honor. The meek, mild gentleman who thought no harm, but peace toward all.
Vinnie intended to go, but the day was cold, and she wanted to keep Uncle L——as she talked with him, always, instead of this new way. She thought too, for the crowd, she could not see you, children, and she would be another one to give others care. Mother said Mr. V——, yes, dears, even Mr. V——, at whom we sometimes smile, talked about “Lorin” and “Laviny” and his friendship towards them, to your father’s guests. We won’t smile at him any more now, will we? Perhaps he’ll live to tell some gentleness of us, who made merry of him.
But never mind that now. When you have strength, tell us how it is, and what we may do for you, of comfort, or of service. Be sure you crowd all others out, precious little cousins. Good-night. Let Emily sing for you because she cannot pray:—
It is not 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 soon as frosts are due Adopts a better latitude. We are the birds that stay, The shiverers round farmers’ doors, For whose reluctant crumb We stipulate, till pitying snows Persuade our feathers home.
DEAR CHILDREN,—We received the news of your loving kindness through Uncle J——last evening, and Vinnie is negotiating with neighbor Gray, who goes to a wedding in Boston next week, for the procuring of the nest. Vinnie’s views of expressage do not abate with time. The crocuses are with us and several other colored friends. Cousin H——broke her hip, and is in a polite bed, surrounded by mint juleps. I think she will hate to leave it as badly as Marian Erle did. Vinnie says there is a tree in Mr. Sweetser’s woods that shivers. I am afraid it is cold. I am going to make it a little coat. I must make several, because it is tall as the barn, and put them on as the circus men stand on each other’s shoulders… . There is to be a “show” next week, and little Maggie’s bed is to be moved to the door so she can see the tents. Folding her own like the Arabs gives her no apprehension. While I write, dear children, the colors Eliza loved quiver on the pastures, and day goes gay to the northwest, innocent as she.
I trust the Procession of Flowers was not a premonition.
Of this curious letter Colonel Higginson wrote: “Mr. Howells reminds me that Swedenborg somewhere has an image akin to her ‘oblique place,’ where he symbolizes evil as simply an oblique angle.”
In the summer of 1863 Colonel Higginson was wounded; in September of the same year began Emily’s trouble with her eyes, frequently referred to. In the April following she went to Boston,—her mention of Hawthorne’s death (May, 1864) of itsel placing the date:—
DEAR FRIEND,—I find you with dusk, for day is tired, and lays her antediluvian cheek to the hill like a child.
Nature confides now.
I hope you are joyful frequently, these beloved days, and the health of your friend bolder.
I remember her with my blossoms and wish they were hers
Whose pink career may have a close Portentous as our own, who knows? To imitate these neighbors fleet, In awe and innocence, were meet.
Summer is so kind I had hoped you might come. Since my father’s dying, everything sacred enlarged so it was dim to own. When a few years old, I was taken to a funeral which I now know was of peculiar distress, and the clergyman asked, “Is the arm of the Lord shortened, that it cannot save?”
He italicised the “cannot.” I mistook the accent for a doubt of Immortality, and not daring to ask, it besets me still, though we know that the mind of the heart must live if its clerical part do not. Would you explain it to me? … It comforts an instinct if another have felt it too. I was rereading your Decoration. You may have forgotten it.
A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.
Vinnie and her sister thank Miss Whitney for the delicate kindness, and remember her with peculiar love these acuter days… .
I fear we think too lightly of the gift of mortality, which, too gigantic to comprehend, certainly cannot be estimated.
DEAR FRIEND,—I have thought of you often since the darkness,—though we cannot assist another’s night. I have hoped you were saved. That he has received Immortality who so often conferred it, invests it with a more sudden charm… .
I hope you have the power of hope, and that every bliss we know or guess hourly befalls you.
DEAR FRIEND,—It pains us very much that you have been more ill. We hope you may not be suffering now. Thank you for speaking so earnestly when our mother died. We have spoken daily of writing you, but have felt unable. The great attempt to save her life had it been successful would have been fatigueless, but failing, strength forsook us.
No verse in the Bible has frightened me so much from a child as “from him that hath not, shall be taken even that he hath.” Was it because its dark menace deepened our own door? You speak as if you still missed your mother. I wish we might speak with you. As we bore her dear form through the wilderness, light seemed to have stopped.
Her dying feels to me like many kinds of cold—at times electric, at times benumbing,—then a trackless waste love has never trod… .
The letter from the skies, which accompanied yours, was indeed a boon. A letter always seemed to me like Immortality, for is it not the mind alone, without corporeal friend?
I hope you may tell us that you are better.
Thank you for much kindness. The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
When President Stearns died, this stanza came to Mrs. Stearns:—
Love’s stricken “why” ves stricken “why” Is all that love can speak— Built of but just a syllable The hugest hearts that break.
DEAR FRIEND,—The only balmless wound is the departed human life we had learned to need.
For that, even Immortality is a slow solace. All other peace has many roots and will spring again.
With cheer from one who knows.
After Mrs. Jackson’s death, August 12, 1885, Emily wrote of her:—
Helen of Troy will die, but Helen of Colorado, never. Dear friend, can you walk, were the last words that I wrote her.
Dear friend, I can fly— Her immortal reply.
This letter, in her bold, clear, detached hand (to an accustomed eye slightly less firm than usual), is the last one, so far as known, which Emily Dickinson wrote. Afterward, she continued to be delicate, though hardly alarmingly so; but just before the fifteenth of May, 1886, she sent two words to her cousins, freighted with startling import,—
LITLLE COUSINS,—Called back.