there is another sky
ever serene and fair,
and there is another sunshine,
tho’ it be darkness there -
never mind faded forests, Austin,
never mind silent fields -
here is a little forest
whose leaf is ever green -
here is a brighter garden -
where not a frost has been,
in its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum,
prithee, my Brother,
into my garden come!
c’è un altro cielo
sempre sereno e bello,
e c’è un altro splendore di sole,
benché là sia tenebra -
non curarti dei boschi appassiti, Austin,
non curarti dei campi silenziosi -
qui c’è un piccolo bosco
la cui foglia è sempre verde -
qui c’è un giardino più luminoso -
dove mai un gelo è stato,
nei suoi fiori che non sfioriscono
odo la chiara ape ronzare,
ti prego, Fratello mio,
nel mio giardino vieni!
Baffled for just a day or two —
Embarrassed — not afraid —
Encounter in my garden
An unexpected Maid.
She beckons, and the woods start —
She nods, and all begin —
Surely, such a country
I was never in!
Sconcertata per un giorno o due soltanto —
Imbarazzata — non impaurita —
Incontro nel mio giardino
Una Fanciulla inattesa.
Lei accenna, e i boschi si destano —
Lei annuisce, e tutto ha inizio —
Certo, in un tale paese
Non ero stata mai!
All these my banners be.
I sow my pageantry
In May —
It rises train by train —
Then sleeps in state again —
My chancel — all the plain
Today.
To lose — if one can find again —
To miss — if one shall meet —
The Burglar cannot rob — then —
The Broker cannot cheat.
So build the hillocks gaily
Thou little spade of mine
Leaving nooks for Daisy
And for Columbine —
You and I the secret
Of the Crocus know —
Let us chant it softly —
“There is no more snow!”
To him who keeps an Orchis’ heart —
The swamps are pink with June.
Tutti questi i miei vessilli siano.
Semino il mio corteo
In Maggio —
Sorge schiera dopo schiera —
Poi dorme di nuovo in pompa —
Mio presbiterio — tutta la piana
Oggi.
Perdere — se si può ritrovare —
Mancare — se ci si incontrerà —
Il Ladro non può rubare — allora —
Il Sensale non può ingannare.
Innalza dunque lieta i poggetti
Tu piccola vanga mia
Lasciando angoli per la Margherita
E per l’Aquilegia —
Tu ed io il segreto
Del Croco conosciamo —
Cantiamolo sommessi —
“Non c’è più neve!”
A chi serba un cuore d’Orchidea —
Le paludi sono rosa di Giugno.
I haven’t told my garden yet —
Lest that should conquer me.
I haven’t quite the strength now
To break it to the Bee —
I will not name it in the street
For shops would stare at me —
That one so shy — so ignorant
Should have the face to die.
The hillsides must not know it —
Where I have rambled so —
Nor tell the loving forests
The day that I shall go —
Nor lisp it at the table —
Nor heedless by the way
Hint that within the Riddle
One will walk today —
Non l’ho ancora detto al mio giardino —
Perché non abbia a vincermi.
Non ho ora forza abbastanza
Per rivelarlo all’Ape —
Non lo nominerò per strada
Ché le botteghe mi fisserebbero —
Che una così timida — così ignara
Abbia la faccia di morire.
I pendii non devono saperlo —
Dove ho tanto vagato —
Né dirlo alle foreste amorose
Il giorno in cui me ne andrò —
Né sussurrarlo a tavola —
Né distratta per via
Accennare che dentro l’Enigma
Qualcuno camminerà oggi —
Some Rainbow — coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere —
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
Feather by feather — on the plain
Fritters itself away!
The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees — march — one by one —
In murmuring platoon!
The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday —
On fence — and Roof — and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover - Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!
Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas —
Or what Circassian Land?
Qualche Arcobaleno — che viene dalla Fiera!
Qualche Visione del Mondo Cashmere —
Con fiducia vedo!
Oppure d’un Pavone la purpurea Coda
Piuma su piuma — sulla piana
Si sperpera via!
Le sognanti Farfalle si destano!
Stagni letargici riprendono il frullo
Della spezzata melodia dell’anno scorso!
Da qualche vecchia Fortezza sul sole
Baronali Bees — marciano — una a una —
In mormorante plotone!
I Pettirossi stanno fitti oggi
Come fiocchi di neve stavano ieri —
Su steccato — e Tetto — e Ramoscello!
L’Orchidea si allaccia la piuma
Per il suo vecchio amante - Don il Sun!
Che rivisita la Palude!
Senza Comandante! Innumerevoli! Immoti!
I Reggimenti di Bosco e Hill
In luminoso distaccamento stanno!
Guardate! Di chi sono queste Moltitudini?
I figli di quali mari turbantati —
O di quale Terra Circassa?
A Lady red — amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms —
Sweep vale — and hill — and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird —
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
Una Dama rossa — fra la Collina
Il suo annuale segreto serba!
Una Dama bianca, dentro il Campo
In placido Giglio dorme!
Le linde Brezze, con le loro Scope —
Spazzano valle — e collina — e albero!
Vi prego, Mie graziose Massaie!
Chi mai sarà l’atteso?
I Vicini ancora non sospettano!
I Boschi si scambiano un sorriso!
Frutteto, e Ranuncolo, e Uccello —
Fra così poco tempo!
Eppure, com’è immoto il Paesaggio!
Com’è noncurante la Siepe!
Come se la “Resurrezione”
Non fosse nulla di molto strano!
We should not mind so small a flower —
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.
So spicy her Carnations nod —
So drunken, reel her Bees —
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees —
That whoso sees this little flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.
Non dovremmo badare a un fiore così piccolo —
Se non che quieto riporta
Il nostro piccolo giardino perduto
Di nuovo al Prato.
Così speziati annuiscono i suoi Garofani —
Così ebbre, vacillano le sue Api —
Così argentei rubano cento flauti
Da cento alberi —
Che chiunque veda questo piccolo fiore
Per fede può chiaro scorgere
I Bobolink attorno al trono
E i Denti di leone d’oro.
Whose cheek is this?
What rosy face
Has lost a blush today?
I found her — “pleiad” — in the woods
And bore her safe away.
Robins, in the tradition
Did cover such with leaves,
But which the cheek —
And which the pall
My scrutiny deceives.
Di chi è questa guancia?
Quale viso di rosa
Ha perso oggi un rossore?
La trovai — “pleiade” — nei boschi
E la portai al sicuro.
I pettirossi, nella tradizione
Ne coprivano di simili con foglie,
Ma quale la guancia —
E quale il drappo
Il mio scrutinio inganna.
Within my reach !
I could have touched !
I might have chanced that way !
Soft sauntered through the village,
Sauntered as soft away !
So unsuspected violets
Within the fields lie low ;
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago.
A portata di mano !
Avrei potuto toccare !
Sarei potuta passare di là !
Vagare lieve per il villaggio,
Vagare via altrettanto lieve !
Così insospettate violette
Nei campi giacciono basse ;
Troppo tardi per dita anelanti
Che passarono, un’ora fa.
So bashful when I spied her,
So pretty, so ashamed !
So hidden in her leaflets,
Lest anybody find ;
So breathless till I passed her,
So helpless when I turned
And bore her, struggling, blushing,
Her simple haunts beyond !
For whom I robbed the dingle,
For whom betrayed the dell,
Many will doubtless ask me,
But I shall never tell !
Così timida quando la scorsi,
Così graziosa, così vergognosa !
Così nascosta tra le sue foglioline,
Perché nessuno la trovasse ;
Così senza fiato finché non le passai accanto,
Così inerme quando mi volsi
E la portai via, riluttante, arrossendo,
Oltre i suoi semplici rifugi !
Per chi depredai la valletta,
Per chi tradii il vallone,
Molti senza dubbio mi chiederanno,
Ma io non lo dirò mai !
Angels in the early morning
May be seen the dews among,
Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying :
Do the buds to them belong ?
Angels when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying ;
Parched the flowers they bear along.
Angeli nel primo mattino
Si posson vedere fra le rugiade,
Chini, coglienti, sorridenti, in volo :
Appartengono a loro i boccioli ?
Angeli quando il sole è più ardente
Si posson vedere fra le sabbie,
Chini, coglienti, sospiranti, in volo ;
Riarsi i fiori che portano con sé.
My nosegays are for Captives —
Dim — expectant eyes,
Fingers denied the plucking,
Patient till Paradise.
To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer.
I miei mazzolini sono per i Prigionieri —
Occhi spenti — in attesa,
Dita negate al cogliere,
Pazienti fino al Paradiso.
A costoro, se sussurrassero
Del mattino e della brughiera,
Non recano altro messaggio,
E io, nessun’altra preghiera.
A science — so the Savants say,
“Comparative Anatomy” —
By which a single bone —
Is made a secret to unfold
Of some rare tenant of the mold,
Else perished in the stone —
So to the eye prospective led,
This meekest flower of the mead
Upon a winter’s day,
Stands representative in gold
Of Rose and Lily, manifold,
And countless Butterfly!
Una scienza — così dicono i Sapienti,
“Anatomia Comparata” —
Per cui un singolo osso —
È indotto a svelare un segreto
Di qualche raro abitatore del suolo,
Altrimenti perito nella pietra —
Così all’occhio prospettico condotto,
Questo umilissimo fiore del prato
In un giorno d’inverno,
Sta rappresentante in oro
Di Rosa e Giglio, moltiplicati,
E d’innumerevole Farfalla!
As children bid the guest good-night,
And then reluctant turn,
My flowers raise their pretty lips,
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake,
Merry that it is morn,
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.
Come bimbi che danno all’ospite la buona-notte,
E poi riluttanti si voltano,
I miei fiori sollevano le graziose labbra,
Poi indossano le camicie da notte.
Come bimbi che saltellano al risveglio,
Allegri perché è mattino,
I miei fiori da cento culle
Faranno capolino, e danzeranno ancora.
Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower ?
But I could never sell.
If you would like to borrow
Until the daffodil
Unties her yellow bonnet
Beneath the village door,
Until the bees, from clover rows
Their hock and sherry draw,
Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!
Forse vorresti comprare un fiore ?
Ma io non potrei mai vendere.
Se vuoi prenderlo in prestito
Finché la giunchiglia
Non slacci la sua cuffia gialla
Sotto la porta del villaggio,
Finché le api, dai filari di trifoglio
Non attingano il loro hock e sherry,
Ebbene, presterò fino ad allora,
Ma non un’ora di più!
Flowers — Well — if anybody
Can the ecstasy define —
Half a transport — half a trouble —
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow —
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine —
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line —
Have a system of aesthetics —
Far superior to mine.
Fiori — Ebbene — se qualcuno
Sa l’estasi definire —
Metà rapimento — metà tormento —
Con cui i fiori umiliano gli uomini:
Se qualcuno trova la fonte
Da cui flutti così contrari fluiscono —
Gli darò tutte le Margherite
Che sul pendio fioriscono.
Troppo pathos nei loro volti
Per un petto semplice come il mio —
Farfalle da St. Domingo
In crociera lungo la linea purpurea —
Hanno un sistema di estetica —
Di gran lunga superiore al mio.
An altered look about the hills —
A Tyrian light the village fills —
A wider sunrise in the morn —
A deeper twilight on the lawn —
A print of a vermillion foot —
A purple finger on the slope —
A flippant fly upon the pane —
A spider at his trade again —
An added strut in Chanticleer —
A flower expected everywhere —
An axe shrill singing in the woods —
Fern odors on untravelled roads —
All this and more I cannot tell —
A furtive look you know as well —
And Nicodemus’ Mystery
Receives its annual reply!
Uno sguardo mutato sui colli —
Una luce di Tiro riempie il villaggio —
Un’aurora più ampia nel mattino —
Un crepuscolo più fondo sul prato —
Un’impronta di un piede vermiglio —
Un dito purpureo sul pendio —
Una mosca impertinente sul vetro —
Un ragno di nuovo al suo mestiere —
Un incedere più tronfio in Chanticleer —
Un fiore atteso in ogni dove —
Un’ascia che canta stridula nei boschi —
Odori di felce su strade non battute —
Tutto questo e più ch’io non so dire —
Uno sguardo furtivo che conosci bene —
E il Mistero di Nicodemo
Riceve la sua annuale risposta!
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled —
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again —
Whose are the beds — the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest —
A little further on —
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist —
Little Leontoden.
‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster —
Anemone, and Bell —
Bartsia, in the blanket red —
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied —
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids —
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent —
149
Their bedtime ‘tis, she said —
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
Di chi sono i piccoli letti, chiesi
Che giacciono nelle valli?
Alcuni scossero il capo, altri sorrisero —
E nessuno diede risposta.
Forse non hanno udito, dissi,
Domanderò di nuovo —
Di chi sono i letti — i letti minuscoli
Così fitti sulla piana?
È Margherita, nel più corto —
Un poco più oltre —
Più presso alla porta — a destare il I° —
Il piccolo Leontoden.
È Iris, Signore, e Aster —
Anemone, e Campanula —
Bartsia, nella coperta rossa —
E la paffuta Giunchiglia.
Intanto, a molte culle
Il piede operoso ella moveva —
Canterellando la più bizzarra ninnananna
Che mai cullasse un bimbo.
Zitti! Epigea si desta!
Il Crocus muove le palpebre —
La guancia di Rhodora è cremisi,
Sta sognando i boschi!
Poi volgendosi da loro reverente —
149
È l’ora del loro sonno, disse —
Le api ronzanti li desteranno
Quando i boschi d’Aprile saranno rossi.
As if some little Arctic flower
Upon the polar hem —
Went wandering down the Latitudes
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer —
To firmaments of sun —
To strange, bright crowds of flowers —
And birds, of foreign tongue!
I say, As if this little flower
To Eden, wandered in —
What then? Why nothing,
Only, your inference therefrom!
Come se un piccolo fiore Artico
Sull’orlo polare —
Se ne andasse vagando giù per le Latitudini
Finché perplesso giungesse
A continenti d’estate —
A firmamenti di sole —
A strane, luminose folle di fiori —
E uccelli, di lingua straniera!
Dico, Come se questo piccolo fiore
Nell’Eden, vagando entrasse —
E poi? Ebbene nulla,
Solo, la vostra inferenza da ciò!
The Skies can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the Hills —
The Hills just tell the Orchards —
And they — the Daffodils!
A Bird — by chance — that goes that way —
Soft overhears the whole —
If I should bribe the little Bird —
Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won’t — however —
It’s finer — not to know —
If Summer were an Axiom —
What sorcery had Snow?
So keep your secret — Father!
I would not — if I could,
Know what the Sapphire Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!
I Cieli non sanno tenere il loro segreto!
Lo dicono alle Colline —
Le Colline lo dicono ai Frutteti —
E quelli — alle Giunchiglie!
Un Uccello — per caso — che passa di là —
Piano origlia ogni cosa —
Se corrompessi quell’Uccellino —
Chissà che non lo direbbe?
Penso che non lo farò — comunque —
È più bello — non sapere —
Se l’Estate fosse un Assioma —
Che sortilegio avrebbe la Neve?
Custodisci dunque il tuo segreto — Padre!
Non vorrei — se potessi,
Sapere cosa fanno i Compagni di Zaffiro,
Nel tuo mondo di nuova foggia!
The Flower must not blame the Bee —
That seeketh his felicity
Too often at her door —
But teach the Footman from Vevay —
Mistress is “not at home” — to say —
To people — any more!
Il Fiore non deve biasimare l’Ape —
Che cerca la sua felicità
Troppo spesso alla sua porta —
Ma insegni al Valletto di Vevay —
“La Padrona non è in casa” — a dire —
Alla gente — mai più!
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m some accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though —
I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by —
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me —
I dared not meet the Daffodils —
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own —
I wished the Grass would hurry —
So — when ‘twas time to see —
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch — to look at me —
I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?
They’re here, though; not a creature failed —
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me —
The Queen of Calvary —
Each one salutes me, as he goes,
364
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums —
Temevo tanto quel primo Pettirosso,
Ma ora è domato,
Mi sono un poco abituata a Lui,
Fa un po’ male, però —
Pensavo Se solo potessi vivere
Finché quel primo Grido fosse passato —
Non tutti i Pianoforti dei Boschi
Avrebbero potere di straziarmi —
Non osavo incontrare i Narcisi —
Per paura che la loro Veste Gialla
Mi trafiggesse con una foggia
Così estranea alla mia —
Volevo che l’Erba s’affrettasse —
Così — quando fosse tempo di vedere —
Troppo alta sarebbe, il più alto
Dovrebbe protendersi — per guardarmi —
Non sopportavo che le Api venissero,
Volevo che restassero lontane
In quei paesi oscuri dove vanno,
Che parola avevano, per me?
Sono qui, però; nessuna creatura mancò —
Nessun Fiore restò lontano
In gentile deferenza a me —
La Regina del Calvario —
Ognuno mi saluta, mentre va,
364
E io, i miei Pennacchi infantili,
Sollevo, in luttuoso riconoscimento
Dei loro Tamburi inconsapevoli —
There is a flower that Bees prefer —
And Butterflies — desire —
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird — aspire —
And Whatsoever Insect pass —
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her — capacity —
Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture —
Or Rhododendron — worn —
She doth not wait for June —
Before the World be Green —
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind — be seen —
Contending with the Grass —
Near Kinsman to Herself —
For Privilege of Sod and Sun —
Sweet Litigants for Life —
And when the Hills be full —
And newer fashions blow —
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy —
Her Public — be the Noon —
400
Her Providence — the Sun —
Her Progress — by the Bee — proclaimed —
In sovereign — Swerveless Tune —
The Bravest — of the Host —
Surrendering — the last —
Nor even of Defeat — aware —
What cancelled by the Frost —
C’è un fiore che le Api preferiscono —
E le Farfalle — desiderano —
A conquistare il Democratico Purpureo
Il Colibrì — aspira —
E Qualsivoglia Insetto passi —
Un Miele porta via
Proporzionato alla sua propria penuria
E alla sua — capacità —
Il suo volto è più tondo della Luna
E più rubicondo della Veste
O dell’Orchidea nel Pascolo —
O del Rododendro — indossato —
Ella non attende Giugno —
Prima che il Mondo sia Verde —
Il suo robusto piccolo Sembiante
Contro il Vento — si scorge —
Contendendo con l’Erba —
Prossima Parente a Lei stessa —
Per Privilegio di Zolla e di Sole —
Dolci Litiganti per la Vita —
E quando le Colline sian piene —
E nuove fogge soffino —
Non ritratta una sola spezia
Per fitta di gelosia —
Il suo Pubblico — sia il Mezzogiorno —
400
La sua Provvidenza — il Sole —
Il suo Progresso — dall’Ape — proclamato —
In sovrana — Melodia senza Deviazioni —
La più Prode — della Schiera —
Ad arrendersi — ultima —
Né pur della Sconfitta — consapevole —
Quando cancellata dal Gelo —
How many Flowers fail in Wood —
Or perish from the Hill —
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful —
How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze —
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight —
It bear to Other Eyes —
Quanti Fiori appassiscono nel Bosco —
O periscono sulla Collina —
Senza il privilegio di sapere
Che sono Belli —
Quanti gettano un Baccello senza nome
Sulla Brezza più vicina —
Inconsapevoli del Carico Scarlatto —
Che porta ad Altri Occhi —
Bloom upon the Mountain — stated —
Blameless of a Name —
Efflorescence of a Sunset —
Reproduced — the same —
Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day —
Not a Topic of a Twilight —
Show itself away —
Who for tilling — to the Mountain
Come, and disappear —
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here —
While I state — the Solemn Petals,
Far as North — and East,
Far as South and West — expanding —
Culminate — in Rest —
And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance —
Indicating, by no Muscle —
The Experience —
Fioritura sulla Montagna — dichiarata —
Innocente d’un Nome —
Efflorescenza d’un Tramonto —
Riprodotta — uguale —
Se avessi Seme, la mia Semina di Porpora
Doterebbe il Giorno —
Non un Tema di Crepuscolo —
Si mostrerebbe per svanire —
Chi per arare — alla Montagna
Viene, e scompare —
Di chi sia la Sua Fama, o il declino,
Testimone, qui non c’è —
Mentre io dichiaro — i Petali Solenni,
Fino al Nord — e all’Est,
Fino al Sud e all’Ovest — espandendosi —
Culminano — in Riposo —
E la Montagna alla Sera
Adatta il Suo Volto —
Senza indicare, con Muscolo alcuno —
L’Esperienza —
This Bauble was preferred of Bees —
By Butterflies admired
At Heavenly — Hopeless Distances —
Was justified of Bird —
Did Noon — enamel — in Herself
Was Summer to a Score
Who only knew of Universe —
It had created Her.
Questo Gingillo fu prediletto dalle Api —
Dalle Farfalle ammirato
A Celesti — Disperate Distanze —
Fu giustificato dall’Uccello —
Il Mezzogiorno — smaltò — in Sé Stessa
Fu Estate per una Schiera
Che dell’Universo sapeva solo —
Che aveva creato Lei.
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
Una Luce esiste in Primavera
Non presente sull’Anno
In alcun altro periodo —
Quando Marzo è appena qui
Un Colore si distende
Su Campi Solitari
Che la Scienza non può raggiungere
Ma l’Umana Natura sente.
Attende sul Prato,
Mostra l’Albero più lontano
Sul Pendio più lontano che conosci
Quasi ti parla.
Poi come Orizzonti avanzano
O Meriggi si congedano
Senza la Formula del suono
Essa passa e noi restiamo —
Una qualità di perdita
Che tocca il nostro Appagamento
Come se il Commercio d’improvviso avesse invaso
Un Sacramento.
Besides this May
We know
There is Another —
How fair
Our Speculations of the Foreigner!
Some know Him whom We knew —
Sweet Wonder —
A Nature be
Where Saints, and our plain going Neighbor
Keep May!
Oltre questo Maggio
Sappiamo
Che ve n’è un Altro —
Come belle
Le nostre Congetture sullo Straniero!
Alcuni conoscono Colui che Noi conoscemmo —
Dolce Meraviglia —
Sia una Natura
Dove i Santi, e il nostro semplice Vicino
Serbano il Maggio!
Bee! I’m expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody you know
That you were due —
The Frogs got Home last Week —
Are settled, and at work —
Birds, mostly back —
The Clover warm and thick —
You’ll get my Letter by
The seventeenth; Reply
Or better, be with me —
Yours, Fly.
Ape! Ti sto aspettando!
Dicevo proprio Ieri
A Qualcuno che conosci
Che eri attesa —
Le Rane sono a Casa dalla Settimana scorsa —
Sistemate, e al lavoro —
Gli Uccelli, quasi tutti tornati —
Il Trifoglio caldo e folto —
Riceverai la mia Lettera entro
Il diciassette; Rispondi
O meglio, vieni da me —
Tua, la Mosca.
Bloom — is Result — to meet a Flower
And casually glance
Would scarcely cause one to suspect
The minor Circumstance
Assisting in the Bright Affair
So intricately done
Then offered as a Butterfly
To the Meridian —
To pack the Bud — oppose the Worm —
Obtain its right of Dew —
Adjust the Heat — elude the Wind —
Escape the prowling Bee
Great Nature not to disappoint
Awaiting Her that Day —
To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility —
La Fioritura — è Risultato — incontrare un Fiore
E gettarvi uno sguardo casuale
Difficilmente farebbe sospettare
La Circostanza minore
Che assiste il Luminoso Evento
Così intricatamente compiuto
Poi offerto come una Farfalla
Al Meridiano —
Serrare il Bocciolo — opporsi al Verme —
Ottenere il suo diritto di Rugiada —
Regolare il Calore — eludere il Vento —
Sfuggire all’Ape in agguato
La grande Natura non deludere
Che L’attende quel Giorno —
Essere un Fiore, è profonda
Responsabilità —
We like March.
His Shoes are Purple —
He is new and high —
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler.
Makes he Forests dry.
Knows the Adder Tongue his coming
And presents her Spot —
Stands the Sun so close and mighty
That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others —
Bold it were to die
With the Blue Birds exercising
On his British Sky.
—-
We like March — his shoes are Purple.
He is new and high —
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler —
Makes he Forests Dry —
Knows the Adder’s Tongue his coming
And begets her spot —
Stands the Sun so close and mighty —
That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others —
Bold it were to die
With the Blue Birds buccaneering
On his British sky —
Ci piace Marzo.
Le sue Scarpe son Porpora —
È nuovo e alto —
Fa lui Fango per Cane e Merciaio.
Fa lui asciutte le Foreste.
Conosce la Lingua di Vipera il suo arrivo
E mostra la sua Macchia —
Sta il Sole così vicino e possente
Che le nostre Menti sono ardenti.
Notizia è lui di tutti gli altri —
Audace sarebbe morire
Con gli Uccelli Azzurri in esercizio
Sul suo Cielo Britannico.
—-
Ci piace Marzo — le sue scarpe son Porpora.
È nuovo e alto —
Fa lui Fango per Cane e Merciaio —
Fa lui le Foreste Asciutte —
Conosce la Lingua della Vipera il suo arrivo
E genera la sua macchia —
Sta il Sole così vicino e possente —
Che le nostre Menti sono ardenti.
Notizia è lui di tutti gli altri —
Audace sarebbe morire
Con gli Uccelli Azzurri corsari
Sul suo cielo Britannico —
March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know —
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now —
We try to show becoming firmness —
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.
Marzo è il Mese dell’Attesa.
Le cose che non sappiamo —
Le Persone della profezia
Stanno arrivando ora —
Cerchiamo di mostrare decorosa fermezza —
Ma una pomposa Gioia
Ci tradisce, come il primo Fidanzamento
Tradisce un Ragazzo.
Before you thought of Spring
Except as a Surmise
You see — God bless his suddenness —
A Fellow in the Skies
Of independent Hues
A little weather worn
Inspiriting habiliments
Of Indigo and Brown —
With specimens of Song
As if for you to choose —
Discretion in the interval
With gay delays he goes
To some superior Tree
Without a single Leaf
And shouts for joy to Nobody
But his seraphic self —
Prima che pensassi alla Primavera
Se non come Congettura
Vedi — Dio benedica la sua subitaneità —
Un Tipo nei Cieli
Di Tinte indipendenti
Un poco logoro dal tempo
Vesti rincuoranti
Di Indaco e Bruno —
Con esemplari di Canto
Come perché tu scelga —
Discrezione nell’intervallo
Con gaie soste se ne va
Verso un Albero superiore
Senza una sola Foglia
E grida di gioia a Nessuno
Se non al suo serafico sé —
The Dandelion’s pallid tube
Astonishes the Grass,
And Winter instantly becomes
An infinite Alas —
The tube uplifts a signal Bud
And then a shouting Flower, —
The Proclamation of the Suns
That sepulture is o’er.
Il pallido tubo del Dente di Leone
Stupisce l’Erba,
E l’Inverno all’istante diventa
Un infinito Ahimè —
Il tubo innalza un Bocciolo di segnale
E poi un Fiore che grida, —
Il Proclama dei Soli
Che la sepoltura è finita.
His oriental heresies
Exhilarate the Bee,
And filling all the Earth and Air
With gay apostasy
Fatigued at last, a Clover plain
Allures his jaded eye
That lowly Breast where Butterflies
Have felt it meet to die —
Le sue eresie orientali
Esilarano l’Ape,
E riempiendo tutta la Terra e l’Aria
Di gaia apostasia
Affaticato infine, un semplice Trifoglio
Alletta il suo occhio spossato
Quel Petto umile dove le Farfalle
Hanno stimato giusto morire —
MY DEAR A.,—You must forgive me, indeed you must, that I have so long delayed to write you, and I doubt not you will when I give you all my reasons for so doing. You know it is customary for the first page to be occupied with apologies, and I must not depart from the beaten track for one of my own imagining… . I had not been very well all winter, but had not written home about it, lest the folks should take me home. During the week following examinations, a friend from Amherst came over and spent a week with me, and when that friend returned home, father and mother were duly notified of the state of my health. Have you so treacherous a friend?
Not knowing that I was to be reported at home, you can imagine my amazement and consternation when Saturday of the same week Austin arrived in full sail, with orders from head-quarters to bring me home at all events. At first I had recourse to words, and a desperate battle with those weapons was waged for a few moments, between my Sophomore brother and myself. Finding words of no avail, I next resorted to tears. But woman’s tears are of little avail, and I am sure mine flowed in vain. As you can imagine, Austin was victorious, and poor, defeated I was led off in triumph. You must not imbibe the idea from what I have said that I do not love home—far from it. But I could not bear to leave teachers and companions before the close of the term and go home to be dosed and receive the physician daily, and take warm drinks and be condoled with on the state of health in general by all the old ladies in town.
Haven’t I given a ludicrous account of going home sick from a boarding-school? Father is quite a hand to give medicine, especially if it is not desirable to the patient, and I was dosed for about a month after my return home, without any mercy, till at last out of mere pity my cough went away, and I had quite a season of peace. Thus I remained at home until the close of the term, comforting my parents by my presence, and instilling many a lesson of wisdom into the budding intellect of my only sister. I had almost forgotten to tell you that I went on with my studies at home, and kept up with my class. Last Thursday our vacation closed, and on Friday morn, midst the weeping of friends, crowing of roosters, and singing of birds, I again took my departure from home. Five days have now passed since we returned to Holyoke, and they have passed very slowly. Thoughts of home and friends “come crowding thick and fast, like lightnings from the mountain cloud,” and it seems very desolate.
Father has decided not to send me to Holyoke another year, so this is my last term. Can it be possible that I have been here almost a year? It startles me when I really think of the advantages I have had, and I fear I have not improved them as I ought. But many an hour has fled with its report to heaven, and what has been the tale of me? … How glad I am that spring has come, and how it calms my mind when wearied with study to walk out in the green fields and beside the pleasant streams in which South Hadley is rich! There are not many wild flowers near,. for the girls have driven them to a distance, and we are obliged to walk quite a distance to find them, but they repay us by their sweet smiles and fragrance.
The older I grow, the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it so with you? While at home there were several pleasure parties of which I was a member, and in our rambles we found many and beautiful children of spring, which I will mention and see if you have found them,—the trailing arbutus, adder’s tongue, yellow violets, liver-leaf, bloodroot, and many other smaller flowers.
What are you reading now? I have little time to read when I am here, but while at home I had a feast in the reading line, I can assure you. Two or three of them I will mention: Evangeline, The Princess, The Maiden Aunt, The Epicurean, and The Twins and Heart by Tupper, complete the list. Am not I a pedant for telling you what I have been reading? Have you forgotten your visit to Amherst last summer, and what delightful times we had? I have not, and I hope you will come and make another and a longer, when I get home from Holyoke. Father wishes to have me at home a year, and then he will probably send me away again, where I know not… .
Enclosed with this was a delicately written “bill of fare” for one of the Seminary dinners.
SOUTH HADLEY SEMINARY
Nov. 2d, 1847 BILL OF FARE ROAST VEAL POTATOES SQUASH GRAVY WHEAT AND BROWN BREAD BUTTER PEPPER AND SALT Dessert APPLE DUMPLING SAUCE WATER
Isn’t that a dinner fit to set before a king?
… Since we have written you the grand railroad decision is made, and there is great rejoicing throughout this town and the neighboring; that is, Sunderland, Montague, and Belchertown. Everybody is wide awake, everything is stirring, the streets are full of people walking cheeringly, and you should really be here to partake of the jubilee. The event was celebrated by D. Warner and cannon; and the silent satisfaction in the hearts of all is its crowning attestation.
Father is really sober from excessive satisfaction, and bears his honors with a most becoming air. Nobody believes it yet, it seems like a fairy tale, a most miraculous event in the lives of us all. The men begin working next week; only think of it, Austin; why, I verily believe we shall fall down and worship the first “son of Erin” that comes, and the first sod he turns will be preserved as an emblem of the struggle and victory of our heroic fathers. Such old fellows as Col. S. and his wife fold their arms complacently and say, “Well, I declare, we have got it after all.” Got it, you good-for-nothings! and so we have, in spite of sneers and pities and insults from all around; and we will keep it too, in spite of earth and heaven! How I wish you were here—it is really too bad, Austin, at such a time as now. I miss your big hurrahs, and the famous stir you make upon all such occasions; but it is a comfort to know that you are here—that your whole soul is here, and though apparently absent, yet present in the highest and the truest sense… . Take good care of yourself, Austin, and think much of us all, for we do so of you.
You wouldn’t think it was spring, Austin, if you were at home this morning, for we had a great snowstorm yesterday, and things are all white this morning. It sounds funny enough to hear birds singing and sleigh-bells at a time. But it won’t last long, so you needn’t think ‘twill be winter at the time when you come home.
I waited a day or two, thinking I might hear from you, but you will be looking for me, and wondering where I am, so I sha’n’t wait any longer. We’re rejoiced that you’re coming home—the first thing we said to father when he got out of the stage was to ask if you were coming. I was sure you would all the while, for father said “of course you would,” he should “consent to no other arrangement,” and as you say, Austin, “what father says he means.” How very soon it will be now—why, when I really think of it, how near and how happy it is! My heart grows light so fast that I could mount a grasshopper and gallop around the world, and not fatigue him any! The sugar weather holds on, and I do believe it will stay until you come… . “Mrs. S.” is very feeble; “can’t bear allopathic treatment, can’t have homœopathic, don’t want hydropathic,” oh, what a pickle she is in: Shouldn’t think she would deign to live, it is so decidedly vulgar! They have not yet concluded where to move—Mrs. W. will perhaps obtain board in the celestial city, but I’m sure I can’t imagine what will become of the rest… . Much love from us all.
MY DEAR AUSTIN,—… The New London day passed off grandly, so all the people said. It was pretty hot and dusty, but nobody cared for that. Father was, as usual, chief marshal of the day, and went marching around with New London at his heels like some old Roman general upon a triumph day. Mrs. H. got a capital dinner, and was very much praised. Carriages flew like sparks, hither and thither and yon, and they all said ‘twas fine. I ‘spose’ it was. I sat in Professor Tyler’s woods and saw the train move off, and then came home again for fear somebody would see me, or ask me how I did. Dr. Holland was here, and called to see us—was very pleasant indeed, inquired for you, and asked mother if Vinnie and I might come and see them in Springfield… . We all send you our love.
Well, Austin, dear Austin, you have got back again, codfish and pork and all—all but the slippers, so nicely wrapped to take, yet found when you were gone under the kitchen chair. I hope you won’t want them. Perhaps you have some more there—I will send them by opportunity, should there be such a thing. Vinnie proposed franking them, but I fear they are rather large! What should you think of it? It isn’t every day that we have a chance to sponge Congress, … but Cæsar is such “an honorable man” that we may all go to the poorhouse for all the American Congress will lift a finger to help us… .
The usual rush of callers, and this beleaguered family as yet in want of time. I do hope immortality will last a little while, but if the A——s should happen to get there first, we shall be driven there… .
DEAR AUSTIN,—A week ago we were all here—to-day we are not all here—yet the bee hums just as merrily, and all the busy things work on as if the same. They do not miss you, child, but there is a humming-bee whose song is not so merry, and there are busy ones who pause to drop a tear. Let us thank God, to-day, Austin, that we can love our friends, our brothers and our sisters, and weep when they are gone, and smile at their return. It is indeed a joy which we are blest to know.
To-day is very beautiful—just as bright, just as blue, just as green and as white and as crimson as the cherry-trees full in bloom, and the half-opening peach-blossoms, and the grass just waving, and sky and hill and cloud can make it, if they try. How I wish you were here, Austin; you thought last Saturday beautiful, yet to this golden day ‘twas but one single gem to whole handfuls of jewels. You will ride to-day, I hope, or take a long walk somewhere, and recollect us all, Vinnie and me and father and mother and home. Yes, Austin, every one of us, for we all think of you, and bring you to recollection many times each day—not bring you to recollection, for we never put you away, but keep recollecting on… .
You must think of us to-night while Mr. Dwight takes tea here, and we will think of you far away down in Cambridge.
Don’t mind the can, Austin, if it is rather dry, don’t mind the daily road though it is rather dusty, but remember the brooks and the hills, and remember while you’re but one, we are but four at home!
DEAR VINNIE,—The hood is far under way, and the girls think it a beauty… . I hope the chimneys are done, and the hemlocks set, and the two teeth filled in the front yard. How astonishing it will be to me!…
The pink lily you gave Lou has had five flowers since I came, and has more buds. The girls think it my influence. Lou wishes she knew father’s view of Jeff Davis’ capture—thinks no one but him can do it justice. She wishes to send a photograph of the arrest to Austin, including the skirt and spurs, but fears he will think her trifling with him. I advised her not to be rash.
How glad I should be to see you all, but it won’t be long, Vinnie. You will be willing, won’t you, for a little while? It has rained and been very hot, and mosquitoes, as in August. I hope the flowers are well. The tea-rose I gave Aunt L——has a flower now. Is the lettuce ripe? Persons wear no bonnets here. Fanny has a blade of straw with handle of ribbon.
DEAR FRIENDS,—I thought I would write again. I write you many letters with pens which are not seen. Do you receive them?
I think of you all to-day, and dreamed of you last night.
When father rapped on my door to wake me this morning, I was walking with you in the most wonderful garden, and helping you pick—roses, and though we gathered with all our might, the basket was never full. And so all day I pray that I may walk with you, and gather roses again, and as night draws on, it pleases me, and I count impatiently the hours ‘tween me and the darkness, and the dream of you and the roses, and the basket never full.
God grant the basket fill not, till, with hands purer and whiter, we gather flowers of gold in baskets made of pearl; higher—higher! It seems long since we heard from you— long, since how little Annie was, or any one of you—so long since Cattle Show, when Dr. Holland was with us. Oh, it always seems a long while from our seeing you, and even when at your house, the nights seemed much more long than they’re wont to do, because separated from you. I want so much to know if the friends are all well in that dear cot in Springfield—and if well whether happy, and happy—how happy, and why, and what bestows the joy? And then those other questions, asked again and again, whose answers are so sweet, do they love—remember us—wish sometimes we were there? Ah, friends—dear friends —perhaps my queries tire you, but I so long to know.
The minister to-day, not our own minister, preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those, meaning Austin and me, who behaved improperly—and somehow the sermon scared me, and father and Vinnie looked very solemn as if the whole was true, and I would not for worlds have them know that it troubled me, but I longed to come to you, and tell you all about it, and learn how to be better. He preached such an awful sermon though, that I didn’t much think I should ever see you again until the Judgment Day, and then you would not speak to me, according to his story. The subject of perdition seemed to please him, somehow. It seems very solemn to me. I’ll tell you all about it, when I see you again.
I wonder what you are doing to-day—if you have been to meeting? To-day has been a fair day, very still and blue. To-night the crimson children are playing in the west, and to-morrow will be colder. How sweet if I could see you, and talk of all these things! Please write us very soon. The days with you last September seem a great way off, and to meet you again, delightful. I’m sure it won’t be long before we sit together.
Then will I not repine, knowing that bird of mine, though flown—learneth beyond the sea, melody new for me, and will return.
… February passed like a skate and I know March. Here is the “light” the stranger said “was not on sea or land.” Myself could arrest it, but will not chagrin him.
… Cousin Peter told me the Doctor would address Commencement—trusting it insure you both for papa’s fête I endowed Peter. We do not always know the source of the smile that flows to us… .
My flowers are near and foreign, and I have but to cross the floor to stand in the Spice Isles.
The wind blows gay to-day and the jays bark like blue terriers.
I tell you what I see—the landscape of the spirit requires a lung, but no tongue. I hold you few I love, till my heart is red as February and purple as March.
Hand for the Doctor.
How is your little Byron? Hope he gains his foot without losing his genius. Have heard it ably argued that the poet’s genius lay in his foot—as the bee’s prong and his song are concomitant. Are you stronger than these? To assault so minute a creature seems to me malign, unworthy of Nature—but the frost is no respecter of persons.
I should be glad to be with you, or to open your letter. Blossoms belong to the bee, if needs be by habeas corpus.
DEAR MARY,—Could you leave “Charlie” long enough? Have you time for me? I sent Mr. Bowles a little note, last Saturday morning, asking him to do an errand for me.
I forgot he was going to Washington, or I shouldn’t have troubled him, so late. Now, Mary, I fear he did not get it, and you tried to do the errand for me—and it troubled you. Did it? Will you tell me? Just say with your pencil “It didn’t tire me, Emily,” and then I shall be sure, for with all your care, I would not have taxed you for the world.
You never refused me, Mary, you cherished me many times, but I thought it must seem so selfish to ask the favor of Mr. Bowles just as he went from home, only I forgot that. Tell me to-night just a word, Mary, with your own hand, so I shall know I harassed none—and I will be so glad.
Austin told us of Charlie—I send a rose for his small hands.
Put it in, when he goes to sleep, and then he will dream of Emily, and when you bring him to Amherst we shall be “old friends.” Don’t love him so well, you know, as to forget us. We shall wish he wasn’t there, if you do, I’m afraid, sha’n’t we?
I’ll remember you, if you like me to, while Mr. Bowles is gone, and that will stop the lonely, some, but I cannot agree to stop when he gets home from Washington.
Good-night, Mary. You won’t forget my little note, tomorrow, in the mail. It will be the first one you ever wrote me in your life, and yet, was I the little friend a long time? Was I, Mary?
DEAR FRIEND,—The hearts in Amherst ache to-night —you could not know how hard. They thought they could not wait, last night, until the engine sang a pleasant tune that time, because that you were coming. The flowers waited, in the vase, and love got peevish, watching. A railroad person rang, to bring an evening paper—Vinnie tipped pussy over, in haste to let you in, and I, for joy and dignity, held tight in my chair. My hope put out a petal.
You would come, to-day,—but … we don’t believe it, now; “Mr. Bowles not coming!” Wouldn’t you, to-morrow, and this but be a bad dream, gone by next morning?
Please do not take our spring away, since you blot summer out! We cannot count our tears for this, because they drop so fast… .
Dear friend, we meant to make you brave, but moaned before we thought… . If you’ll be sure and get well, we’ll try to bear it. If we could only care the less, it would be so much easier. Your letter troubled my throat. It gave that little scalding we could not know the reason for till we grew far up.
I must do my good-night in crayon I meant to in red.
Love for Mary.
No wilderness can be Where this attendeth thee— No desert noon, No fear of frost to come Haunt the perennial bloom, But certain June!
The little “apple of my eye,” is not dearer than L——; she knows I remember her,—why waste an instant in defence of an absurdity? My birds fly far off, nobody knows where they go to, but you see I know they are coming back, and other people don’t, that makes the difference.
I’ve had a curious winter, very swift, sometimes sober, for I haven’t felt well, much, and March amazes me! I didn’t think of it, that’s all! Your “hay” don’t look so dim as it did at one time. I hayed a little for the horse two Sundays ago, and mother thought it was summer, and set one plant outdoors which she brought from the deluge, but it snowed since, and we have fine sleighing, now, on one side of the road, and wheeling on the other, a kind of variegated turnpike quite picturesque to see!
You are to have Vinnie, it seems, and I to tear my hair, or engage in any other vocation that seems fitted to me. Well, the earth is round, so if Vinnie rolls your side sometimes, ‘tisn’t strange; I wish I were there too, but the geraniums felt so I couldn’t think of leaving them, and one minute carnation pink cried, till I shut her up—see box!
Now, my love, robins, for both of you, and when you and Vinnie sing at sunrise on the apple boughs, just cast your eye to my twig.
DEAR L——,—You did not acknowledge my vegetable; perhaps you are not familiar with it. I was reared in the garden, you know. It was to be eaten with mustard! Bush eighty feet high, just under chamber window—much used at this season when other vegetables are gone. You should snuff the hay if you were here to-day, infantile as yet, homely, as cubs are prone to be, but giving brawny promise of hay-cocks by and by. “Methinks I see you,” as school-girls say, perched upon a cock with the “latest work,” and confused visions of bumblebees tugging at your hat. Not so far off, cousin, as it used to be, that vision and the hat. It makes me feel so hurried, I run and brush my hair so to be all ready.
I enjoy much with a precious fly, during sister’s absence, not one of your blue monsters, but a timid creature, that hops from pane to pane of her white house, so very cheerfully, and hums and thrums, a sort of speck piano. Tell Vinnie I’ll kill him the day she comes, for I sha’n’t need him any more, and she don’t mind flies!
Tell F——and papa to come with the sweetwilliams.
Tell Vinnie I counted three peony noses, red as Sammie Matthews’s, just out of the ground, and get her to make the accompanying face. “By-Bye.”
… just a word for my children, before the mails shut. L——left a tumbler of sweet-peas on the green room bureau. I am going to leave them there till they make pods and sow themselves in the upper drawer, and then I guess they’ll, blossom about Thanksgiving time. There was a thundershower here Saturday at car-time, and Emily was glad her little ones had gone before the hail and rain, lest it frighten, them… . We wish the visit had just begun instead of ending now; next time we’ll leave “the mountains” out, and tell good Dr. Gregg to recommend the orchards. I defrauded L——of i spool of thread; we will “settle,” however—and F——‘s ruff is set high in my book of remembrance. They must be good children and recollect, as they agreed, and grow so strong in health that Emily won’t know them when they show again… . Such a purple morning—even to the morning-glory that climbs the cherry-tree. The cats desire love to F——.
DEAR CHILDREN,—Nothing has happened but loneliness, perhaps too daily to relate. Carlo is consistent, has asked for nothing to eat or drink, since you went away. Mother thinks him a model dog, and conjectures what he might have been, had not Vinnie “demoralized” him. Margaret objects to furnace heat on account of bone decrepitudes, so I dwell in my bonnet and suffer comfortably… .
Miss Kingman called last evening to inspect your garden; I gave her a lanthorn, and she went out, and thanks you very much. No one has called so far, but one old lady to look at a house. I directed her to the cemetery to spare expense of moving.
I got down before father this morning, and spent a few moments profitably with the South Sea rosy. Father detecting me, advised wiser employment, and read at devotions the chapter of the gentleman with one talent. I think he thought my conscience would adjust the gender.
Margaret washed to-day, and accused Vinnie of calicoes. I put her shoe and bonnet in to have them nice when she got home. I found a milliner’s case in Miss N——‘s wardrobe, and have opened business. I have removed a geranium leaf, and supplied a lily in Vinnie’s parlor vase. The sweet-peas are unchanged. Cattle-show is to-morrow. The coops and committees are passing now… . They are picking the Baldwin apples. Be good children, and mind the vicar. Tell me precisely how Wakefield looks, since I go not myself.
… I am glad my little girl is at peace. Peace is a deep place. Some, too faint to push, are assisted by angels.
I have more to say to you all than March has to the maples, but then I cannot write in bed. I read a few words since I came home—John Talbot’s parting with his son, and Margaret’s with Suffolk. I read them in the garret, and the rafters wept.
Remember me to your company, their Bedouin guest.
Every day in the desert, Ishmael counts his tents. New heart makes new health, dear.
Happiness is haleness. I dreamed last night I heard bees fight for pond-lily stamens, and waked with a fly in my room.
Shall you be strong enough to lift me by the first of April? I won’t be half as heavy as I was before. I will be good and chase my spools.
I shall think of my little Eve going away from Eden. Bring me a jacinth for every finger, and an onyx shoe.
All that my eyes will let me shall be said for L——, dear little solid gold girl. I am glad to the foot of my heart that you will go to M——. It will make you warm. Touches “from home,” tell Gungl, are better than “sounds.”7
You persuade me to speak of my eyes, which I shunned doing, because I wanted you to rest. I could not bear a single sigh should tarnish your vacation, but, lest through me one bird delay a change of latitude, I will tell you, dear.
The eyes are as with you, sometimes easy, sometimes sad. I think they are not worse, nor do I think them better than when I came home.
The snow-light offends them, and the house is bright; notwithstanding, they hope some. For the first few weeks I did nothing but comfort my plants, till now their small green cheeks are covered with smiles. I chop the chicken centres when we have roast fowl, frequent now, for the hens contend and the Cain is slain… . Then I make the yellow to the pies, and bang the spice for cake, and knit the soles to the stockings I knit the bodies to last June. They say I am a “help.” Partly because it is true, I suppose, arid the rest applause. Mother and Margaret are so kind, father as gentle as he knows how, and Vinnie good to me, but “cannot see why I don’t get well.” This makes me think I am long sick, and this takes the ache to my eyes. I shall try to stay with them a few weeks more before going to Boston, though what it would be to see you and have the doctor’s care—that cannot be told. You will not wait for me. Go to M——now. I wish I were there, myself, to start your little feet “lest they seem to come short of it.” I have so much to tell I can tell nothing, except a sand of love. When I dare I shall ask if I may go, but that will not be now.
Give my love to my lamp and spoon, and the small lantana. Kindest remembrance for all the house, and write next from M——. Go, little girl, to M——. Life is so fast it will run away, notwithstanding our sweetest whoa.
Already they love you. Be but the maid you are to me, and they will love you more.
Carry your heart and your curls, and nothing more but your fingers. Mr. D——will ask for these every candlelight. How I miss ten robins that never flew from the rosewood nest!
DEAR L——,—This is my letter—an ill and peevish thing, but when my eyes get well I’ll send you thoughts like daisies, and sentences could hold the bees… .
Thank you, own little girls, for the sweet remembrance —sweet specifically. Be sure it was pondered with loving thoughts not unmixed with palates.
But love, like literature, is “its exceeding great reward.” … I am glad you heard “Little Em’ly.” I would go far to hear her, except I have lost the run of the roads… . Infinite March is here, and I “hered” a bluebird. Of course I am standing on my head!
Go slow, my soul, to feed thyself Upon his rare approach. Go rapid, lest competing death Prevail upon the coach. Go timid, should his testing eye Determine thee amiss, Go boldly, for thou paidst the price, Redemption for a kiss.
Tabby is singing Old Hundred, which, by the way, is her maiden name. Would they address and mail the note to their friend J——W——?
… How short it takes to go, dear, but afterward to come so many weary years—and yet ‘tis done as cool as a general trifle. Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat. We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
Of all these things we tried to talk, but the time refused us. Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies. Do you remember what you said the night you came to me? I secure that sentence. If I should see your face no more it will be your portrait, and if I should, more vivid than your mortal face. We must be careful what we say. No bird resumes its egg.
A word left careless on a page May consecrate an eye, When folded in perpetual seam The wrinkled author lie.
SISTERS—I hear robins a great way off, and wagons a great way off, and rivers a great way off, and all appear to be hurrying somewhere undisclosed to me. Remoteness is the founder of sweetness; could we see all we hope, or hear the whole we fear told tranquil, like another tale, there would be madness near. Each of us gives or takes heaven in corporeal person, for each of us has the skill of life. I am pleased by your sweet acquaintance. It is not recorded of any rose that it failed of its bee, though obtained in specific instances through scarlet experience. The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own. Pussy remembered the judgment, and remained with Vinnie. Maggie preferred her home to “Miggles” and “Oakhurst,” so with a few spring touches, nature remains unchanged.
The most triumphant bird I ever knew or met, Embarked upon a twig to-day,— And till dominion set I perish to behold So competent a sight— And sang for nothing scrutable But impudent delight. Retired and resumed His transitive estate; To what delicious accident Does finest glory fit!
MY DEAR LITTLE COUSINS,—I bring you a robin who is eating a remnant oat on the sill of the barn. The horse was not as hungry as usual, leaving an ample meal for his dulcet friend… .
Maggie was charmed with her donkeys, and has long been talking of writing, but has not quite culminated. They stand on the dining-room side-board, by the side of an orange, and a Springfield Republican. It will please you to know that the clover in the bill of the brown one is fresh as at first, notwithstanding the time, though the only “pastures” I know gifted with that duration, are far off as the psalms.
Mr. C——called with a twilight of you. It reminded me of a supper I took, with the pictures on Dresden china. Vinnie asked him “what he had for supper,” and he said he “could easier describe the nectar of the gods.” … We read in a tremendous Book about “an enemy,” and armed a confidential fort to scatter him away. The time has passed, and years have come, and yet not any “Satan.” I think he must be making war upon some other nation.
Could you believe me without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves. Would this do just as well?
It often alarms father. He says death might occur, and he has moulds of all the rest, but has no mould of me; but I noticed the quick wore off those things in a few days, and forestall the dishonor. You will think no caprice of me. You said “dark.” I know the butterfly, and the lizard, and the orchis. Are not those your countrymen?
I am happy to be your scholar, and will deserve the kindness I cannot repay.
If you truly consent, I recite now. Will you tell me my fault, frankly, as to yourself, for I had rather wince than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, sir, and fracture within is more critical. And for this, preceptor, I shall bring you obedience, the blossom from my garden, and every gratitude I know.
Perhaps you smile at me. I could not stop for that. My business is circumference. An ignorance, not of customs, but if caught with the dawn, or the sunset see me, myself the only kangaroo among the beauty, sir, if you please, it afflicts me, and I thought that instruction would take it away.
Because you have much business, beside the growth of me, you will appoint, yourself, how often I shall come without your inconvenience.
And if at any time you regret you received me, or I prove a different fabric to that you supposed, you must banish me.
When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.
You are true about the “perfection.” To-day makes yesterday mean.
You spoke of Pippa Passes. I never heard anybody speak of Pippa Passes before. You see my posture is benighted.
To thank you baffles me. Are you perfectly powerful? Had I a pleasure you had not, I could delight to bring it.
Of his meeting Emily Dickinson in her own home, and of his first impressions of her, Colonel Higginson has told in the pages of The Atlantic.
Withdrawing more and more constantly from accumulated humanity, no thought of the possibility of a lack of congenial occupation ever crossed her mind. During their first interview, indeed, Colonel Higginson asked her “if she never felt any want of employment, not going off the grounds, and rarely seeing a visitor”; to which she replied, “I never thought of conceiving that I could ever have the slightest approach to such a want in all future time.”
Among the strong and remarkable things she said to him are several sentences which it seems not irrelevant to insert here:—
“Is it oblivion or absorption when things pass from our minds?”
“Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.”
“I find ecstasy in living; the mere sense of living is joy enough.”
One or two others Colonel Higginson has called “the very wantonness of over-statement,” as,—
“How do most people live without any thoughts? There are many people in the world,—you must have noticed them in the street,—how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?”
And this, “a crowning extravaganza,”—
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?”
After the visit she wrote:—
DEAR FRIEND,—The flower was jasmine. I am glad if it pleased your friend. It is next dearest to daphne, except wild-flowers—those are dearer.
I have a friend in Dresden, who thinks the love of the field a misplaced affection—and says he will send me a meadow that is better than summer’s. If he does, I will send it to you.
I have read nothing of Tourguéneff’s, but thank you for telling me—and will seek him immediately. I did not read Mr. Miller because I could not care about him.
Mrs. Hunt’s poems are stronger than any written by women since Mrs. Browning, with the exception of Mrs. Lewes’s; but truth like ancestors’ brocades can stand alone. You speak of Men and Women. That is a broad book.
Bells and Pomegranates I never saw, but have Mrs. Browning’s endorsement. While Shakespeare remains, literature is firm.
An insect cannot run away with Achilles’s head. Thank you for having written the Atlantic Essays. They are a fine joy, though to possess the ingredient for congratulation renders congratulation superfluous.
Dear friend, I trust you as you ask. If I exceed permission, excuse the bleak simplicity that knew no tutor but the north. Would you but guide
DEAR FRIEND,—Your sweet self-reprehension makes us look within, which is so wild a place we are soon dismayed, but the seed sown in the lake bears the liquid flower, and so of all your words.
I am glad you accept rest.
Too many disdain it. I am glad you go to the Adirondacks.
To me the name is homelike, for one of my lost went every year with an Indian guide, before the woods were broken. Had you been here it would be sweet, but that, like the peach, is later. With a tomorrow in its cupboard, who would be “an hungered”?
Thank you for thinking of Dick. He is now the horse of association.
Men are picking the grass from father’s meadow to lay it away for winter, and it takes them a long time. They bring three horses of their own, but Dick, ever gallant, offers to help, and bears a little machine like a top, which spins the grass away.
It seems very much like a gentleman getting his own supper—for what is his supper winter nights but tumblers of clover?
You speak of “disillusion.” That is one of the few subjects on which I am an infidel. Life is so strong a vision, not one of it shall fail.
Not what the stars have done, but what they are to do, is what detains the sky.
We shall watch for the promised words from the Adirondacks, and hope the recess will all be joy. To have been made alive is so chief a thing, all else inevitably adds. Were it not riddled by partings, it were too divine.
I was never certain that mother had died, except while the students were singing. The voices came from another life… .
Good-night dear. Excuse me for staying so long. I love to come to you. To one who creates, or consoles, thought, what an obligation!
DEAR FRIEND,—In these few few weeks of ignorance of you, we trust that you are growing stronger, and drawing near that sweet physician, an approaching spring, for the ear of the heart hears bluebirds already, those enthralling signals… . The great confidences of life are first disclosed by their departure, and I feel that I ceaselessly ought to thank you… . Our household is scarcely larger than yours —Vinnie and I and two servants composing our simple realm, though my brother is with us often each day. I wish
LETTER TO MR. F. D. CLARK, facsimile
I could show you the hyacinths that embarrass us by their loveliness, though to cower before a flower is perhaps unwise, but beauty is often timidity—perhaps oftener pain.
A soft “Where is she?” is all that is left of our loved mother, and thank you for all you told us of yours… .
Would you feel more at home with a flower from home in your hand, dear?
DEAR FRIEND,—Accept my timid happiness.
No joy can be in vain, but adds to some bright total, whose dwelling is unknown.
The immortality of flowers must enrich our own, and we certainly should resent a redemption that excluded them.
Was not the “breath of fragrance” designed for your cheek solely?
The fear that it was crimsons my own, though to divide its Heaven is Heaven’s highest half.
Dear FRIEND,—Your sweetness intimidates.
Had it been a mastiff that guarded Eden, we should have feared him less than we do the angel.
I read your little letter. It had, like bliss, the minute length.
It were dearer had you protracted it; but the sparrow must not propound his crumb.
We shall find the cube of the rainbow, Of that there is no doubt; But the arc of a lover’s conjecture Eludes the finding out.
Will the little hands that have brought me so much tenderness, the sweet hands in which a bird would love to lie, the fingers that knew no estrangement except the gulf of down,—will such enfold a daphne?
Almost I trust they will, yet trust is such a shelving word; part of our treasures are denied us, part of them provisoed, like bequests available far hence, part of them we partake.
Which, dear, are divinest?
The dandelion’s pallid tube Astonishes the grass, And winter instantly becomes An infinite Alas. The tube uplifts a signal bud, And then a shouting flower; The proclamation of the suns That sepulture is o’er.
Vinnie told me, dear friend, you were speaking of Mr. Root.
Vinnie suggests these little friends.
Would they be too grovelling? And I add a face from my garden.
Though you met it before, it might not be charmless.
The little annual creatures solicit your regard.
Mrs. Hills often sent dainties. from New York, perhaps Florida oranges, confectionery, or hot-house flower. Upon one of these occasions the reply came:—
Only a pond lily that I tilled myself.
A blossom, perhaps, is an introduction, to whom, none Can infer.
Any gift but spring seems a counterfeit, but the birds are such sweet neighbors they rebuke us all.
One friend writes from New York of her regret that many of Emily’s notes to herself have been destroyed. But she adds: “One little welcome of Emily’s to me became a household word; and I can quote it for you, though it should have the setting of her wide, pure margins, and her most dainty penmanship. Here it is:—
“Sweet Mrs. Nellie comes with the robins. Robins have wings. Mrs. Nellie has wings. A society for the prevention of wings would be a benefit to us all.
“It tells its own story, you see, of a flitting visit to the Grove in the spring, and of her interest in her neighbors and her information as to their interests, though so invisible herself.”
… I fear Vinnie gave my message as John Alden did the one from Miles Standish, which resulted delightfully for John, but not as well for his friend.
Had you seen the delighted crowd that gathered round the box—did you ever see a crowd of three?—you would have felt requited. Your presenting smile was alone want-mug.
“Dear Mrs. Carmichael,” said one; “The one that never forgets,” said another; and a tear or two in the eyes of the third, and the reception was over. Can you guess which the third was?
The candy was enchanting, and is closeted in a deep pail, pending Vinnie’s division, and the little box, like Heaven and mice; far too high to find.
Failure be my witness that I have sought them faithfully.
We often think of your evening circle—Mr. Skeel presiding at the piano, and Mrs. Skeel and yourself taking mutual lessons.
I am studying music now with the jays, and find them charming artists.
Vinnie and Gilbert have pretty battles on the pussy question, and you are needed for umpire, oftener than you think.
“Weren’t you chasing pussy?” said Vinnie to Gilbert. “No, she was chasing herself.”
“But wasn’t she running pretty fast?” said pussy’s Nemesis. “Well, some slow and some fast,” said the beguiling villain.
With the little kiss he gave me last, and a pair of my own, and love for Mr. and Mrs. Skeel,
Lest any bee should boast.
Trusting the happy flower will meet you at the door where spring will soon be knocking, we challenge your “come in.”
FROM THE many notes sent me by Emily Dickinson during the last four years of her life, it was a difficult matter to select those best fitted for publication. But the first one available was probably this response to a small panel which I had painted for her,—a group of Indian pipes, those weird white flowers of shade and silence:—