Morns like these - we parted
Noons like these - she rose!
Fluttering first - then firmer
To her fair repose -
Never did she lisp it
And ‘twas not for me -
She was mute for transport
I, for agony!
Till the evening nearing
One the shutters drew -
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
Mattini come questi - ci separammo
Meriggi come questi - lei sorse!
Tremula dapprima - poi più salda
Verso il suo bel riposo -
Mai lei lo sussurrò
E non era per me -
Lei era muta per il rapimento
Io, per l’agonia!
Finché sul farsi della sera
Qualcuno tirò le imposte -
Presto! un fruscio più netto!
E questo fanello volò!
If those I loved were lost,
the crier’s voice would tell me -
If those I loved were found,
The [[Bells|the bells]] of Ghent would ring,
Did those I loved repose,
the Daisy would impel me -
Philip when bewildered -
bore his riddle in -
Se quelli che amavo fossero perduti,
la voce del banditore me lo direbbe -
Se quelli che amavo fossero ritrovati,
The [[Bells|le campane]] di Gand suonerebbero,
Se quelli che amavo riposassero,
la Margherita mi spingerebbe -
Philip quando smarrito -
portò dentro il suo enigma -
It did not surprise me —
So I said — or thought —
She will stir her pinions
And the nest forgot,
Traverse broader forests —
Build in gayer boughs,
Breathe in Ear more modern
God’s old fashioned vows —
This was but a Birdling —
What and if it be
One within my bosom
Had departed me?
This was but a story —
What and if indeed
There were just such coffin
In the heart instead?
Non mi sorprese —
Così dissi — o pensai —
Lei scuoterà le sue penne
E il nido dimenticato,
Traverserà foreste più vaste —
Costruirà su rami più gai,
Sussurrerà in Orecchio più moderno
Gli antiquati voti di God —
Questo era solo un Uccellino —
E che, e se fosse
Uno dentro il mio petto
Ad avermi lasciata?
Questa era solo una storia —
E che, e se davvero
Ci fosse proprio tale bara
Nel cuore invece?
Could live — did live —
Could die — did die —
Could smile upon the whole
Through faith in one he met not,
To introduce his soul.
Could go from scene familiar
To an untraversed spot —
Could contemplate the journey
With unpuzzled heart —
Such trust had one among us,
Among us not today —
We who saw the launching
Never sailed the Bay!
Poteva vivere — visse —
Poteva morire — morì —
Poteva sorridere sul tutto
Per fede in uno che non incontrò,
A cui presentare la sua anima.
Poteva andare da scena familiare
A un luogo mai percorso —
Poteva contemplare il viaggio
Con cuore non perplesso —
Tale fiducia ebbe uno fra noi,
Fra noi non oggi —
Noi che vedemmo il varo
Mai salpammo la Baia!
I never lost as much but twice,
And that was in the sod ;
Twice have I stood a beggar
Before the door of God !
Angels, twice descending,
Reimbursed my store.
Burglar, banker, father,
I am poor once more !
Non ho mai perso tanto se non due volte,
E fu nella zolla ;
Due volte sono stata mendica
Davanti alla porta di Dio !
Angeli, due volte discesi,
Rimborsarono la mia scorta.
Ladro, banchiere, padre,
Sono povera ancora una volta !
A poor — torn heart — a tattered heart —
That sat it down to rest —
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West —
Nor noticed Night did soft descend —
Nor Constellation burn —
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels — happening that way
This dusty heart espied —
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God —
There — sandals for the Barefoot —
There — gathered from the gales —
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.
Un povero — lacero cuore — un cuore a brandelli —
Che si sedette a riposare —
Né notò che il Giorno in Riflusso
Fluiva argento verso Ovest —
Né notò che la Notte scendeva soave —
Né la Costellazione ardere —
Intento alla visione
Di latitudini ignote.
Gli angeli — passando per quella via
Scorsero questo cuore polveroso —
Teneramente lo sollevarono dalla fatica
E lo portarono a Dio —
Là — sandali per lo Scalzo —
Là — raccolte dalle burrasche —
I porti azzurri per mano
Guidano le Vele erranti.
As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear —
As for the lost we grapple
Tho’ all the rest are here —
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize
Vast — in its fading ration
To our penurious eyes!
Come presso i morti amiamo sedere,
Divenuti così mirabilmente cari —
Come ai perduti ci aggrappiamo
Benché tutti gli altri siano qui —
In matematiche spezzate
Stimiamo il nostro tesoro
Vasto — nella sua razione che svanisce
Ai nostri occhi avari!
Where I have lost, I softer tread —
I sow sweet flower from garden bed —
I pause above that vanished head
And mourn.
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word —
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
Though stone!
When I have lost, you’ll know by this —
A Bonnet black — A dusk surplice —
A little tremor in my voice Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
Next Bliss!
Dove ho perduto, cammino più lieve —
Semino dolce fiore da aiuola di giardino —
Mi fermo sopra quel capo svanito
E piango.
Chi ho perduto, pia custodisco
Da accento aspro, o parola spietata —
Come se il loro cuscino udisse,
Benché pietra!
Quando ho perduto, lo saprete da questo —
Una Cuffia nera — Una fosca cotta —
Un piccolo tremito nella mia voce Come questo!
Perché ho perduto, lo sa la gente
Che vestita in stormi di purissima neve
Andò a casa un secolo fa
Accanto alla Beatitudine!
This heart that broke so long —
These feet that never flagged —
This faith that watched for star in vain,
Give gently to the dead —
Hound cannot overtake the Hare
That fluttered panting, here —
Nor any schoolboy rob the nest
Tenderness builded there.
Questo cuore che sì a lungo si spezzò —
Questi piedi che mai vacillarono —
Questa fede che invano vegliò la stella,
Date dolcemente ai morti —
Il Segugio non può raggiungere la Lepre
Che palpitò ansante, qui —
Né alcuno scolaro depredare il nido
Che Tenerezza vi costruì.
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”
In quiet “Haworth” laid.
Gathered from many wanderings —
Gethsemane can tell
Thro’ what transporting anguish
She reached the Asphodel!
Soft fall the sounds of Eden
Upon her puzzled ear —
Oh what an afternoon for Heaven,
When “Bronte” entered there!
Tutta ricoperta di muschio astuto,
Tutta cosparsa d’erbacce,
La piccola gabbia di “Currer Bell”
Nella quieta “Haworth” posata.
Raccolta da molti vagabondaggi —
Il Getsemani può dire
Per quale estatica angoscia
Ella giunse all’Asfodelo!
Lievi cadono i suoni dell’Eden
Sul suo orecchio perplesso —
Oh che pomeriggio per il Cielo,
Quando “Bronte” vi entrò!
She went as quiet as the dew
From a familiar flower.
Not like the dew did she return
At the accustomed hour !
She dropt as softly as a star
From out my summer’s eve ;
Less skilful than Leverrier
It’s sorer to believe!
Se ne andò quieta come la rugiada
Da un fiore familiare.
Ma non come la rugiada fece ritorno
All’ora consueta !
Cadde soave come una stella
Dalla sera della mia estate ;
Meno abile di Leverrier
È più doloroso da credere!
She died — this was the way she died.
And when her breath was done
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The Angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
Morì — fu così che morì.
E quando il suo respiro fu finito
Prese il suo semplice corredo
E s’incamminò verso il sole.
La sua piccola figura al cancello
Gli Angeli devono aver scorto,
Poiché non potei mai trovarla
Dal lato mortale.
Except to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels — lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.
Except for winds — provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.
The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence — Home!
Tranne che al Cielo, lei è nulla.
Tranne che per gli Angeli — sola.
Tranne che per qualche Ape vagabonda
Un fiore sbocciato in più.
Tranne che per i venti — provinciale.
Tranne che dalle Farfalle
Inosservata come una sola rugiada
Che posa sull’Acro.
La più piccola Massaia nell’erba,
Pure toglietela dal Prato
E qualcuno ha perduto il volto
Che faceva dell’Esistenza — Casa!
I lost a World — the other day!
Has Anybody found?
You’ll know it by the Row of Stars
Around its forehead bound.
A Rich man — might not notice it —
Yet — to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats —
Oh find it — Sir — for me!
Ho perso un Mondo — l’altro giorno!
Qualcuno l’ha trovato?
Lo riconoscerete dalla Fila di Stelle
Legata intorno alla sua fronte.
Un Ricco — potrebbe non notarlo —
Eppure — al mio frugale Occhio,
Di più Pregio che Ducati —
Oh trovatelo — Signore — per me!
I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because — because if he should die
While I was gone — and I — too late —
Should reach the Heart that wanted me —
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted — hunted so — to see —
And could not bear to shut until
They “noticed” me — they noticed me —
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I’d come — so sure I’d come —
It listening — listening — went to sleep —
Telling my tardy name —
My Heart would wish it broke before —
Since breaking then — since breaking then —
Were useless as next morning’s sun —
Where midnight frosts — had lain!
Non oserei lasciare il mio amico,
Perché — perché se lui morisse
Mentre ero via — e io — troppo tardi —
Giungessi al Cuore che mi voleva —
Se deludessi gli occhi
Che cercavano — cercavano tanto — di vedere —
E non sopportavano di chiudersi finché
Non m’avessero “notata” — m’avessero notata —
Se pugnalassi la paziente fede
Così certa ch’io venissi — così certa ch’io venissi —
Che ascoltando — ascoltando — cadde nel sonno —
Ripetendo il mio nome tardivo —
Il mio Cuore vorrebbe essersi spezzato prima —
Ché spezzarsi allora — ché spezzarsi allora —
Sarebbe inutile come il sole del mattino dopo —
Dove i geli di mezzanotte — s’erano posati!
MORE —
If He dissolve — then — there is nothing — more —
Eclipse — at Midnight —
It was dark — before —
Sunset — at Easter —
Blindness — on the Dawn —
Faint Star of Bethlehem —
Gone down!
Would but some God — inform Him —
Or it be too late!
Say — that the pulse just lisps —
The Chariots wait —
Say — that a little life — for His —
Is leaking — red —
His little Spaniel — tell Him!
Will He heed?
PIÙ —
Se Lui si dissolve — allora — non c’è nulla — più —
Eclissi — a Mezzanotte —
Era buio — prima —
Tramonto — a Pasqua —
Cecità — sull’Alba —
Fioca Stella di Betlemme —
Tramontata!
Volesse qualche Dio — informarLo —
O sarà troppo tardi!
Dite — che il polso appena balbetta —
I Carri attendono —
Dite — che una piccola vita — per la Sua —
Sta stillando — rossa —
Il Suo piccolo Spaniel — diteGlielo!
Darà ascolto?
Her — “last Poems” —
Poets — ended —
Silver — perished — with her Tongue —
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman —
So divine —
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune —
Gushed too free for the Adoring —
From the Anglo-Florentine —
Late — the Praise —
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown —
Diadem — or Ducal Showing —
Be its Grave — sufficient sign —
Nought — that We — No Poet’s Kinsman —
Suffocate — with easy woe —
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom —
Put Her down — in Italy?
Le sue — “ultime Poesie” —
I Poeti — finiti —
L’Argento — perito — con la sua Lingua —
Non v’è a Memoria — altro gorgoglio,
Flauto — o Donna —
Così divino —
Non alla sua Estate — il Mattino
Il Pettirosso — proferì Metà dell’Aria —
Sgorgata troppo libera per gli Adoranti —
Dall’Anglo-Fiorentina —
Tarda — la Lode —
È vano — conferire
Al Capo troppo Alto per Corona —
Diadema — o Pompa Ducale —
Sia la sua Tomba — segno sufficiente —
Nulla — che Noi — di Nessun Poeta Congiunti —
Soffochiamo — con facile pena —
Che, e se, Noi stessi uno Sposo —
La deponemmo — in Italia?
I know lives, I could miss
Without a Misery —
Others — whose instant’s wanting —
Would be Eternity —
The last — a scanty Number —
‘Twould scarcely fill a Two —
The first — a Gnat’s Horizon
Could easily outgrow —
Conosco vite, di cui farei a meno
Senza una Sofferenza —
Altre — la cui mancanza d’un istante —
Sarebbe Eternity —
Le ultime — un Numero scarso —
A stento riempirebbero un Due —
Le prime — l’Orizzonte d’un Moscerino
Potrebbe facilmente oltrepassare —
Take your Heaven further on —
This — to Heaven divine Has gone —
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity — put on —
Now — to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand —
To the Skies — apologize —
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite —
Dressed to meet You —
See — in White!
Porta il tuo Cielo più lontano —
Questo — a Cielo divino se n’è andato —
Fossi Tu entrato prima, per errore,
Forse, persino Tu avresti visto
Un’Eternità — indossata —
Ora — suonare a una Porta più oltre
È il massimo per la Tua Mano —
Ai Cieli — chiedi scusa —
Più vicino alle Tue Cortesie
Di questo Sofferente cortese —
Vestito per incontrarti —
Guarda — di Bianco!
—
It would never be Common — more — I said —
Difference — had begun —
Many a bitterness — had been —
But that old sort — was done —
Or — if it sometime — showed — as ‘twill —
Upon the Downiest — Morn —
Such bliss — had I — for all the years —
‘Twould give an Easier — pain —
I’d so much joy — I told it — Red —
Upon my simple Cheek —
I felt it publish — in my Eye —
‘Twas needless — any speak —
I walked — as wings — my body bore —
The feet — I former used —
Unnecessary — now to me —
As boots — would be — to Birds —
I put my pleasure all abroad —
I dealth a word of Gold
To every Creature — that I met —
And Dowered — all the World —
When — suddenly — my Riches shrank —
A Goblin — drank my Dew —
My Palaces — dropped tenantless —
Myself — was beggared — too —
452
I clutched at sounds —
I groped at shapes —
I touched the tops of Films —
I felt the Wilderness roll back
Along my Golden lines —
The Sackcloth — hangs upon the nail —
The Frock I used to wear —
But where my moment of Brocade —
My — drop — of India?
—
Non sarebbe mai stato Comune — più — dissi —
La Differenza — era cominciata —
Molte amarezze — c’erano state —
Ma quella vecchia specie — era finita —
O — se talvolta — apparisse — come accadrà —
Sul più Soffice — dei Mattini —
Tale beatitudine — avevo — per tutti gli anni —
Darebbe una più Lieve — pena —
Avevo tanta gioia — la dissi — Rossa —
Sulla mia semplice Guancia —
La sentivo pubblicarsi — nel mio Occhio —
Era inutile — che alcuno parlasse —
Camminavo — come ali — il mio corpo portavano —
I piedi — che prima usavo —
Non necessari — ora per me —
Come stivali — sarebbero — per gli Birds —
Sparsi il mio piacere tutt’intorno —
Elargii una parola d’Oro
A ogni Creatura — che incontrai —
E Dotai — tutto il Mondo —
Quando — d’improvviso — le mie Ricchezze si ridussero —
Un Folletto — bevve la mia Dew —
I miei Palazzi — caddero senza inquilini —
Io stessa — ero mendica — anch’io —
452
Afferravo suoni —
Brancolavo forme —
Toccavo le cime di Veli —
Sentivo la Selva ritirarsi
Lungo le mie linee d’Oro —
Il Sacco — pende dal chiodo —
La Veste che un tempo indossavo —
Ma dov’è il mio istante di Broccato —
La mia — goccia — d’India?
I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl —
Life’s little duties do — precisely —
As the very least
Were infinite — to me —
I put new Blossoms in the Glass —
And throw the old — away —
I push a petal from my Gown
That anchored there — I weigh
The time ‘twill be till six o’clock
I have so much to do —
And yet — Existence — some way back —
Stopped — struck — my ticking — through —
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman — When the Errand’s done
We came to Flesh — upon —
There may be — Miles on Miles of Nought —
Of Action — sicker far —
To simulate — is stinging work —
To cover what we are
From Science — and from Surgery —
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded —
For their — sake — not for Ours —
‘Twould start them —
We — could tremble —
But since we got a Bomb —
And held it in our Bosom —
Nay — Hold it — it is calm —
466
Therefore — we do life’s labor —
Though life’s Reward — be done —
With scrupulous exactness —
To hold our Senses — on —
Lego il mio Cappello — piego il mio Scialle —
I piccoli doveri della vita compio — con precisione —
Come se il minimo
Fosse infinito — per me —
Metto Fiori nuovi nel Vaso —
E getto i vecchi — via —
Scosto un petalo dalla mia Veste
Che vi si era ancorato — misuro
Il tempo che manca alle sei in punto
Ho così tanto da fare —
Eppure — l’Esistenza — un poco addietro —
Si fermò — colpì — il mio ticchettio — del tutto —
Non possiamo riporre Noi stessi
Come un Uomo compiuto
O Donna — Quando la Commissione è finita
Per cui venimmo — alla Carne —
Ci saranno forse — Miglia su Miglia di Nulla —
Di Azione — ben più malata —
Simulare — è lavoro che brucia —
Coprire ciò che siamo
Alla Scienza — e alla Chirurgia —
Occhi troppo Telescopici
Per posarsi su noi senza schermo —
Per il loro — bene — non per il Nostro —
Li farebbe trasalire —
Noi — potremmo tremare —
Ma poiché abbiamo una Bomba —
E la tenemmo in Seno —
No — Tienila — è calma —
466
Perciò — compiamo il lavoro della vita —
Benché il Premio della vita — sia finito —
Con scrupolosa esattezza —
Per tenere i nostri Sensi — accesi —
We Cover Thee — Sweet Face —
Not that We tire of Thee —
But that Thyself fatigue of Us —
Remember — as Thou go —
We follow Thee until
Thou notice Us — no more —
And then — reluctant — turn away
To Con Thee o’er and o’er —
And blame the scanty love
We were Content to show —
Augmented — Sweet — a Hundred fold —
If Thou would’st take it — now —
Ti Copriamo — Dolce Volto —
Non perché di Te ci stanchiamo —
Ma perché Tu Ti affatichi di Noi —
Ricorda — mentre vai —
Noi Ti seguiamo finché
Tu non ci scorgi — più —
E allora — riluttanti — ci voltiamo
A contemplarTi ancora e ancora —
E incolpiamo lo scarso amore
Che ci Contentammo di mostrare —
Accresciuto — Dolce — di Cento volte —
Se Tu volessi prenderlo — ora —
To make One’s Toilette — after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still —
That’s easier — than Braid the Hair —
And make the Bodice gay —
When eyes that fondled it are wrenched
By Decalogues — away —
Farsi la Toletta — dopo che la Morte
Ha fatto fredda la Toletta
Del solo Gusto che ci premeva compiacere
È difficile, eppure —
È più facile — che Intrecciare i Capelli —
E fare gaio il Corpetto —
Quando gli occhi che lo vezzeggiavano son strappati
Dai Decaloghi — via —
If anybody’s friend be dead
It’s sharpest of the theme
The thinking how they walked alive —
At such and such a time —
Their costume, of a Sunday,
Some manner of the Hair —
A prank nobody knew but them
Lost, in the Sepulchre —
How warm, they were, on such a day,
You almost feel the date —
So short way off it seems —
And now — they’re Centuries from that —
How pleased they were, at what you said —
You try to touch the smile
And dip your fingers in the frost —
When was it — Can you tell —
You asked the Company to tea —
Acquaintance — just a few —
And chatted close with this Grand Thing
That don’t remember you —
Past Bows, and Invitations —
Past Interview, and Vow —
Past what Ourself can estimate —
That — makes the Quick of Woe!
Se l’amico di qualcuno è morto
È il più acuto del tema
Il pensare a come camminavano vivi —
In questo o quel tempo —
Il loro abito, di una Domenica,
Certa foggia dei Capelli —
Uno scherzo noto a loro soltanto
Perduto, nel Sepolcro —
Com’erano caldi, in quel dato giorno,
Quasi ne senti la data —
Così breve tratto sembra —
E ora — ne sono lontani Secoli —
Come si compiacquero, di ciò che dicesti —
Provi a toccare il sorriso
E immergi le dita nel gelo —
Quando fu — Sai dirlo —
Invitasti la Compagnia al tè —
Conoscenti — pochi appena —
E conversasti fitto con questa Gran Cosa
Che non si ricorda di te —
Oltre Inchini, e Inviti —
Oltre Colloquio, e Voto —
Oltre ciò che Noi stessi possiamo stimare —
Questo — fa il Vivo del Dolore!
Endow the Living — with the Tears —
You squander on the Dead,
And They were Men and Women — now,
Around Your Fireside —
Instead of Passive Creatures,
Denied the Cherishing
Till They — the Cherishing deny —
With Death’s Ethereal Scorn —
Dota i Viventi — delle Lacrime —
Che sperperi sui Morti,
E Loro erano Uomini e Donne — ora,
Intorno al Tuo Focolare —
Invece di Passive Creature,
Cui l’Affetto fu negato
Finché Loro — l’Affetto negano —
Con l’Etereo Sdegno della Morte —
He gave away his Life —
To Us — Gigantic Sum —
A trifle — in his own esteem —
But magnified — by Fame —
Until it burst the Hearts
That fancied they could hold —
When swift it slipped its limit —
And on the Heavens — unrolled —
‘Tis Ours — to wince — and weep —
And wonder — and decay
By Blossoms gradual process —
He chose — Maturity —
And quickening — as we sowed —
Just obviated Bud —
And when We turned to note the Growth —
Broke — perfect — from the Pod —
Diede via la sua Vita —
A Noi — Somma Gigantesca —
Un’inezia — nella sua propria stima —
Ma ingrandita — dalla Fama —
Finché fece scoppiare i Cuori
Che s’illudevano di contenerla —
Quando rapida sfuggì al suo limite —
E sui Cieli — si dispiegò —
A Noi tocca — trasalire — e piangere —
E stupirci — e sfiorire
Per il processo graduale dei Fiori —
Egli scelse — la Maturità —
E germinando — mentre seminavamo —
Semplicemente scavalcò il Bocciolo —
E quando Ci voltammo a osservare la Crescita —
Eruppe — perfetto — dal Baccello —
If I may have it, when it’s dead,
I’ll be contented — so —
If just as soon as Breath is out
It shall belong to me —
Until they lock it in the Grave,
‘Tis Bliss I cannot weigh —
For tho’ they lock Thee in the Grave,
Myself — can own the key —
Think of it Lover! I and Thee
Permitted — face to face to be —
After a Life — a Death — We’ll say —
For Death was That —
And this — is Thee —
I’ll tell Thee All — how Bald it grew —
How Midnight felt, at first — to me —
How all the Clocks stopped in the World —
And Sunshine pinched me — ‘Twas so cold —
Then how the Grief got sleepy — some —
As if my Soul were deaf and dumb —
Just making signs — across — to Thee —
That this way — thou could’st notice me —
I’ll tell you how I tried to keep
A smile, to show you, when this Deep
All Waded — We look back for Play,
At those Old Times — in Calvary,
606
Forgive me, if the Grave come slow —
For Coveting to look at Thee —
Forgive me, if to stroke thy frost
Outvisions Paradise!
Se potrò averlo, quando sarà morto,
Sarò contenta — così —
Se non appena il Respiro sia uscito
Esso apparterrà a me —
Finché non lo chiudano nella Tomba,
È Beatitudine che non so pesare —
Ché pur se Ti chiudono nella Tomba,
Io — posso possedere la chiave —
Pensaci Amante! Io e Te
Ammessi — a stare faccia a faccia —
Dopo una Vita — una Morte — Diremo —
Ché la Morte fu Quello —
E questo — sei Te —
Ti dirò Tutto — come si fece Spoglio —
Come fu la Mezzanotte, all’inizio — per me —
Come tutti gli Orologi si fermarono nel Mondo —
E il Sole mi pizzicava — Faceva così freddo —
Poi come la Pena prese sonno — un poco —
Come se la mia Anima fosse sorda e muta —
Facendo solo segni — di là — verso Te —
Che in tal modo — tu potessi notarmi —
Ti dirò come cercai di serbare
Un sorriso, da mostrarti, quando questo Abisso
Tutto Guadato — guarderemo indietro per Gioco,
A quei Vecchi Tempi — sul Calvario,
606
Perdonami, se la Tomba giunge lenta —
Per la Brama di guardarTi —
Perdonami, se accarezzare il tuo gelo
Supera in visione il Paradiso!
When I was small, a Woman died —
Today — her Only Boy
Went up from the Potomac —
His face all Victory
To look at her — How slowly
The Seasons must have turned
Till Bullets clipt an Angle
And He passed quickly round —
If pride shall be in Paradise —
Ourself cannot decide —
Of their imperial Conduct —
No person testified —
But, proud in Apparition —
That Woman and her Boy
Pass back and forth, before my Brain
As even in the sky —
I’m confident that Bravoes —
Perpetual break abroad
For Braveries, remote as this
In Scarlet Maryland —
Quand’ero piccola, una Donna morì —
Oggi — il suo Unico Figlio
Salì su dal Potomac —
Il volto tutto Vittoria
Per guardarla — Come lente
Devono aver girato le Stagioni
Finché le Pallottole recisero un Angolo
E Lui passò rapido oltre —
Se orgoglio vi sarà in Paradiso —
Noi non possiamo deciderlo —
Del loro Contegno imperiale —
Nessuno testimoniò —
Ma, fieri in Apparizione —
Quella Donna e il suo Figlio
Passano avanti e indietro, davanti alla mia Mente
Come pure nel cielo —
Sono certa che Evviva —
Perpetui prorompono lassù
Per Prodezze, remote come questa
Nello Scarlatto Maryland —
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times —
When Dimness — looks the Oddity —
Distinctness — easy — seems —
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms —
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes —
In just the Jacket that he wore —
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we — old mornings, Children — played —
Divided — by a world —
The Grave yields back her Robberies —
The Years, our pilfered Things —
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings —
As we — it were — that perished —
Themself — had just remained till we rejoin them —
And ‘twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
Della vicinanza alle sue Cose recise
l’Anima ha tempi speciali —
quando la Penombra — pare la Stranezza —
la Nitidezza — facile — sembra —
Le Forme che seppellimmo, dimorano intorno,
familiari, nelle Stanze —
non offuscato dal Sepolcro,
il Compagno di giochi in disfacimento viene —
proprio nella Giacca che indossava —
da tanto abbottonata nella Terra
da quando noi — antichi mattini, Bambini — giocavamo —
divisi — da un mondo —
La Tomba rende le sue Ruberie —
gli Anni, le nostre Cose trafugate —
Nodi lucenti di Apparizioni
ci salutano, con le loro ali —
Come se noi — fossimo — i periti —
Loro — fossero solo rimasti finché non li raggiungiamo —
e fossero loro, e non noi
a portare il lutto.
Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen —
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs — between —
For Stranger — Strangers do not mourn —
There be Immortal friends
Whom Death see first — ‘tis news of this
That paralyze Ourselves —
Who, vital only to Our Thought —
Such Presence bear away
In dying — ‘tis as if Our Souls
Absconded — suddenly —
Lutto nella loro morte sentire
Di Chi mai abbiamo veduto —
Una Vitale Parentela comporta
Tra l’Anima Nostra e la loro —
Per l’Estraneo — gli Estranei non fanno lutto —
Vi sono amici Immortali
Che Morte vede per prima — è notizia di questo
Che paralizza Noi stessi —
Chi, vitale solo al Nostro Pensiero —
Tale Presenza porta via
Morendo — è come se le Nostre Anime
Fossero fuggite — d’improvviso —
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way —
Carriages — Be Sure — and Guests — too —
But for Holiday
‘Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away —
Never Bride had such Assembling —
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead —
Garland be indeed —
Fitter Feet — of Her before us —
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow — or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow
Of Her Father — Whoso ask Her —
He shall seek as high
As the Palm — that serve the Desert —
To obtain the Sky —
Distance — be Her only Motion —
If ‘tis Nay — or Yes —
Acquiescence — or Demurral —
Whosoever guess —
He — must pass the Crystal Angle
687
That obscure Her face —
He — must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise —
Il Suo Dolce turno di lasciare la Dimora
Venne per la Via più Oscura —
Carrozze — di Certo — e Ospiti — anche —
Ma per Festa
È Impresa più pietosa
Di quella del Carico Mare
Che sui Ricci tentò capriole
Che aveva gettato via —
Mai Sposa ebbe tale Adunanza —
Mai parenti s’inginocchiarono
A salutare una Fronte così bella —
Ghirlanda sia davvero —
Più adatti i Piedi — di Lei dinanzi a noi —
Di qualunque Fronte
Arte di Neve — o Inganno di Giglio
Possano mai concedere
Del Padre Suo — Chiunque Le chieda —
Egli cercherà tanto in alto
Quanto la Palma — che serve il Deserto —
Per ottenere il Cielo —
Distanza — sia il Suo solo Moto —
Se è No — oppure Sì —
Acquiescenza — o Diniego —
Chiunque indovini —
Egli — deve passare l’Angolo di Cristallo
687
Che oscura il Suo volto —
Egli — deve avere raggiunto in persona
Eguale Paradiso —
‘Tis good — the looking back on Grief —
To re-endure a Day —
We thought the Mighty Funeral —
Of All Conceived Joy —
To recollect how Busy Grass
Did meddle — one by one —
Till all the Grief with Summer — waved
And none could see the stone.
And though the Woe you have Today
Be larger — As the Sea
Exceeds its Unremembered Drop —
They’re Water — equally —
È bene — il guardare indietro al Dolore —
Ripatire un Giorno —
Che credemmo il Possente Funerale —
Di Ogni Gioia Concepita —
Ricordare come l’Erba Operosa
S’intromise — filo a filo —
Finché tutto il Dolore con l’Estate — ondeggiò
E nessuno poté vedere la pietra.
E benché la Pena che hai Oggi
Sia più grande — Come il Mare
Eccede la sua Goccia Scordata —
Sono Acqua — ugualmente —
Dropped into the Ether Acre —
Wearing the Sod Gown —
Bonnet of Everlasting Laces —
Brooch — frozen on —
Horses of Blonde — and Coach of Silver —
Baggage a strapped Pearl —
Journey of Down — and Whip of Diamond —
Riding to meet the Earl —
Caduta nell’Acro d’Etere —
Con indosso la Veste di Zolla —
Cuffia di Merletti Eterni —
Spilla — gelata addosso —
Cavalli di Biondo — e Carrozza d’Argento —
Per Bagaglio una Perla legata —
Viaggio di Piuma — e Frusta di Diamante —
Cavalcando incontro al Conte —
If He were living — dare I ask —
And how if He be dead —
And so around the Words I went —
Of meeting them — afraid —
I hinted Changes — Lapse of Time —
The Surfaces of Years —
I touched with Caution — lest they crack —
And show me to my fears —
Reverted to adjoining Lives —
Adroitly turning out
Wherever I suspected Graves —
‘Twas prudenter — I thought —
And He — I pushed — with sudden force —
In face of the Suspense —
“Was buried” — “Buried”! “He!”
My Life just holds the Trench —
Se Egli fosse vivo — oserei chiedere —
E come se fosse morto —
E così intorno alle Parole andai —
D’incontrarle — timorosa —
Accennai Mutamenti — Lasso di Tempo —
Le Superfici degli Anni —
Toccai con Cautela — che non s’incrinassero —
E mi mostrassero alle mie paure —
Tornai a Vite adiacenti —
Scansando con destrezza
Ovunque sospettassi Tombe —
Era più prudente — pensai —
E Lui — incalzai — con forza improvvisa —
In faccia all’Attesa —
“Fu sepolto” — “Sepolto”! “Lui!”
La mia Vita regge appena la Trincea —
These — saw Visions —
Latch them softly —
These — held Dimples —
Smooth them slow —
This — addressed departing accents —
Quick — Sweet Mouth — to miss thee so —
This — We stroked —
Unnumbered Satin —
These — we held among our own —
Fingers of the Slim Aurora —
Not so arrogant — this Noon —
These — adjust — that ran to meet us —
Pearl — for Stocking — Pearl for Shoe —
Paradise — the only Palace
Fit for Her reception — now —
Questi — videro Visioni —
Chiudeteli dolcemente —
Queste — ebbero Fossette —
Spianatele piano —
Questa — rivolse accenti d’addio —
Presto — Dolce Bocca — a rimpiangerti così —
Questo — Noi carezzammo —
Raso Innumerabile —
Queste — tenemmo fra le nostre —
Dita della Snella Aurora —
Non così arroganti — questo Mezzogiorno —
Questi — componete — che ci correvano incontro —
Perla — per Calza — Perla per Scarpa —
Paradiso — il solo Palazzo
Degno della Sua accoglienza — ora —
Her final Summer was it —
And yet We guessed it not —
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought
A further force of life
Developed from within —
When Death lit all the shortness up
It made the hurry plain —
We wondered at our blindness
When nothing was to see
But Her Carrara Guide post —
At Our Stupidity —
When duller than our dullness
The Busy Darling lay —
So busy was she — finishing —
So leisurely — were We —
La Sua ultima Estate fu —
Eppure Noi non lo indovinammo —
Se più tenera operosità
La Pervadeva, pensavamo
Una forza ulteriore di vita
Sviluppata dal di dentro —
Quando la Morte illuminò tutta la brevità
Rese chiara la fretta —
Ci stupimmo della nostra cecità
Quando nulla restava da vedere
Se non il Suo Cippo di Carrara —
Della Nostra Stupidità —
Quando più inerte della nostra inerzia
Giaceva l’Indaffarata Cara —
Così occupata era — a finire —
Così placidi — eravamo Noi —
From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone
No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be —
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.
Da Noi Ella errò ormai da un Anno,
Il suo indugiare, ignoto,
Se Selva trattenga i suoi passi
O quella Zona Eterea
Che occhio non vide e visse
Ignari dobbiamo restare —
Sappiamo solo in che tempo dell’Anno
Prendemmo il Mistero.
What did They do since I saw Them?
Were They industrious?
So many questions to put Them
Have I the eagerness
That could I snatch Their Faces
That could Their lips reply
Not till the last was answered
Should They start for the Sky.
Not if Their Party were waiting,
Not if to talk with Me
Were to Them now, Homesickness
After Eternity.
Not if the Just suspect me
And offer a Reward
Would I restore my Booty
To that Bold Person, God —
Che fecero Loro da quando Li vidi?
Furono laboriosi?
Tante domande da porre Loro
Ho io la brama
Che potessi carpire i Loro Volti
Che potessero le Loro labbra rispondere
Non prima che all’ultima fosse risposto
Partirebbero per il Cielo.
Non se la Loro Comitiva attendesse,
Non se parlare con Me
Fosse per Loro ormai, Nostalgia
Dopo l’Eternità.
Non se i Giusti mi sospettassero
E offrissero una Ricompensa
Renderei il mio Bottino
A quella Persona Ardita, Dio —
Sweet, to have had them lost
For news that they be saved —
The nearer they departed Us
The nearer they, restored,
Shall stand to Our Right Hand —
Most precious and the Dead —
Next precious
Those that rose to go —
Then thought of Us, and stayed.
Dolce, averli avuti perduti
Per la notizia che siano salvi —
Quanto più vicini partirono da Noi
Tanto più vicini essi, restituiti,
Staranno alla Nostra Destra —
Preziosissimi anche i Morti —
Poi preziosi
Quelli che si levarono per andare —
Poi pensarono a Noi, e restarono.
Midsummer, was it, when They died —
A full, and perfect time —
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom —
The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail —
When These — leaned unto Perfectness —
Through Haze of Burial —
Mezza estate, era, quando Morirono —
Un tempo pieno, e perfetto —
L’Estate si chiuse su se stessa
In Fioritura Consumata —
Il Grano, colmato il suo chicco estremo
Prima del Correggiato imminente —
Quando Questi — s’inclinarono alla Perfezione —
Attraverso Foschia di Sepoltura —
She sped as Petals of a Rose
Offended by the Wind —
A frail Aristocrat of Time
Indemnity to find —
Leaving on nature — a Default
As Cricket or as Bee —
But Andes in the Bosoms where
She had begun to lie —
Ella fuggì come Petali di Rosa
Offesi dal Vento —
Fragile Aristocratica del Tempo
In cerca d’Indennità —
Lasciando sulla natura — un Ammanco
Come Grillo o come Ape —
Ma Ande nei Petti dove
Aveva iniziato a giacere —
Superfluous were the Sun
When Excellence be dead
He were superfluous every Day
For every Day be said
That syllable whose Faith
Just saves it from Despair
And whose “I’ll meet You” hesitates
If Love inquire “Where”?
Upon His dateless Fame
Our Periods may lie
As Stars that drop anonymous
From an abundant sky.
Superfluo sarebbe il Sole
Quando l’Eccellenza fosse morta
Egli sarebbe superfluo ogni Giorno
Perché ogni Giorno si direbbe
Quella sillaba la cui Fede
Appena la salva dalla Disperazione
E il cui “Ti incontrerò” esita
Se Amore domanda “Dove”?
Sulla Sua Fama senza data
I nostri Periodi possono giacere
Come Stelle che cadono anonime
Da un cielo abbondante.
A Sickness of this World it most occasions
When Best Men die.
A Wishfulness their far Condition
To occupy.
A Chief indifference, as Foreign
A World must be
Themselves forsake — contented,
For Deity.
Un Malessere di questo Mondo per lo più cagiona
Quando muoiono gli Uomini Migliori.
Un Desiderio la loro lontana Condizione
Di occupare.
Una Somma indifferenza, quanto Straniero
Un Mondo debba essere
Che Essi abbandonano — contenti,
Per la Deità.
Three Weeks passed since I had seen Her —
Some Disease had vext
’Twas with Text and Village Singing
I beheld Her next
And a Company — our pleasure
To discourse alone —
Gracious now to me as any —
Gracious unto none —
Borne without dissent of Either
To the Parish night —
Of the Separated Parties
Which be out of sight?
Tre Settimane passate da che L’avevo vista —
Qualche Malattia l’aveva afflitta
Fu con Testo e Canto di Villaggio
Che La rividi poi
E una Compagnia — nostro piacere
Discorrere da soli —
Cortese ora con me come con chiunque —
Cortese verso nessuno —
Portata senza dissenso di Alcuno
Alla notte della Parrocchia —
Delle Parti Separate
Quale sarà fuori di vista?
THE last night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.
We noticed smallest things, —
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as ‘t were.
That others could exist
While she must finish quite,
A jealousy for her arose
So nearly infinite.
We waited while she passed;
It was a narrow time,
Too jostled were our souls to speak,
At length the notice came.
She mentioned, and forgot;
Then lightly as a reed
Bent to the water, shivered scarce,
Consented, and was dead.
And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.
L’ultima notte che lei visse,
Fu una notte comune,
Se non per il morire; questo a noi
Rese diversa la natura.
Notammo le cose più piccole, —
Cose prima trascurate,
Da questa gran luce sulle nostre menti
Poste in corsivo, per così dire.
Che altri potessero esistere
Mentre lei doveva del tutto finire,
Sorse per lei una gelosia
Quasi infinita.
Aspettammo mentre lei passava;
Fu un tempo angusto,
Troppo urtate le nostre anime per parlare,
Infine giunse l’annuncio.
Lei accennò, e dimenticò;
Poi lieve come un giunco
Piegato all’acqua, rabbrividì appena,
Acconsentì, e fu morta.
E noi, noi componemmo i capelli,
E sollevammo eretto il capo;
E poi vi fu un ozio tremendo,
La nostra fede da regolare.
That odd old man is dead a year —
We miss his stated Hat.
‘Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.
Who miss his antiquated Wick —
Are any hoar for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?
Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee —
Feels transitive and cool.
Quel vecchio strano è morto da un anno —
Ci manca il suo Cappello consueto.
Era una sera così luminosa e rigida
La sua lampada sbiadita si spense.
Chi rimpiange il suo Stoppino antiquato —
C’è qualche canuto per lui?
Attende qualche compagna indurita
Il suo rugoso tornare a Casa?
Oh Vita, iniziata in fluente Sangue
E consumata spenta!
Il Compimento contemplandoti —
Si sente transitorio e freddo.
Through what transports of Patience
I reached the stolid Bliss
To breathe my Blank without thee
Attest me this and this —
By that bleak exultation
I won as near as this
Thy privilege of dying
Abbreviate me this —
Attraverso quali trasporti di Pazienza
Giunsi all’impassibile Beatitudine
Di respirare il mio Vuoto senza te
Attestami questo e questo —
Per quella cupa esultanza
Vinsi tanto vicino a questo
Il tuo privilegio di morire
Abbreviami questo —
I should not dare to be so sad
So many Years again —
A Load is first impossible
When we have put it down —
The Superhuman then withdraws
And we who never saw
The Giant at the other side
Begin to perish now.
Non oserei essere così triste
Tanti Anni ancora —
Un Carico è dapprima impossibile
Quando lo abbiamo deposto —
Il Sovrumano allora si ritira
E noi che mai vedemmo
Il Gigante dall’altro lato
Cominciamo ora a perire.
Fortitude incarnate
Here is laid away
In the swift Partitions
Of the awful Sea —
Babble of the Happy
Cavil of the Bold
Hoary the Fruition
But the Sea is old
Edifice of Ocean
Thy tumultuous Rooms
Suit me at a venture
Better than the Tombs
Fortezza incarnata
Qui è riposta
Nelle rapide Partizioni
Del tremendo Mare —
Balbettio dei Felici
Cavillo degli Audaci
Canuto il Compimento
Ma il Mare è vecchio
Edificio d’Oceano
Le tue tumultuose Stanze
Mi si confanno all’azzardo
Meglio delle Tombe
While we were fearing it, it came —
But came with less of fear
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it fair —
There is a Fitting — a Dismay —
A Fitting — a Despair
’Tis harder knowing it is Due
Than knowing it is Here.
They Trying on the Utmost
The Morning it is new
Is Terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.
Mentre lo temevamo, venne —
Ma venne con meno paura
Perché temerlo così a lungo
L’aveva quasi reso bello —
C’è un Adattarsi — uno Sgomento —
Un Adattarsi — una Disperazione
È più duro sapere che è Dovuto
Che sapere che è Qui.
Il Provarsi l’Estremo
Il Mattino in cui è nuovo
È più Terribile che indossarlo
Per un’intera esistenza.
A faded Boy — in sallow Clothes
Who drove a lonesome Cow
To pastures of Oblivion —
A statesman’s Embryo —
The Boys that whistled are extinct —
The Cows that fed and thanked
Remanded to a Ballad’s Barn
Or Clover’s Retrospect —
Un Ragazzo sbiadito — in Abiti giallastri
Che guidava una Mucca solitaria
A pascoli d’Oblio —
Embrione d’uno statista —
I Ragazzi che fischiavano sono estinti —
Le Mucche che pascevano e ringraziavano
Rimandate a un Fienile di Ballata
O alla Retrospettiva del Trifoglio —
A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring
In contrast with the things that sing
Not Birds entirely — but Minds —
Minute Effulgencies and Winds —
When what they sung for is undone
Who cares about a Blue Bird’s Tune —
Why, Resurrection had to wait
Till they had moved a Stone —
Una Fitta è più cospicua in Primavera
In contrasto con le cose che cantano
Non solo Uccelli — ma Menti —
Minute Rifulgenze e Venti —
Quando ciò per cui cantavano è disfatto
Chi si cura del Canto di un Uccello Azzurro —
Ebbene, la Resurrezione dovette attendere
Che avessero smosso una Pietra —
Her Losses make our Gains ashamed —
She bore Life’s empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Life’s empty Pack is heaviest,
As every Porter knows —
In vain to punish Honey —
It only sweeter grows.
Le sue Perdite fanno vergognare i nostri Guadagni —
Portava il vuoto Fardello della Vita
Con tanta gagliardia come se l’Oriente
Le oscillasse sulla Schiena.
Il vuoto Fardello della Vita è il più pesante,
Come ogni Facchino sa —
Vano punire il Miele —
Non fa che crescere più dolce.
‘Tis not the swaying frame we miss,
It is the steadfast Heart,
That had it beat a thousand years,
With Love alone had bent,
Its fervor the electric Oar,
That bore it through the Tomb,
Ourselves, denied the privilege,
Consolelessly presume —
Non è l’ondeggiante forma che ci manca,
È il Cuore saldo,
Che avesse battuto mille anni,
Con Amore soltanto si sarebbe piegato,
Il suo fervore l’elettrico Remo,
Che lo portò attraverso la Tomba,
Noi, negato il privilegio,
Sconsolatamente presumiamo —
My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
La mia vita si chiuse due volte prima della sua chiusura—
Resta ancora da vedere
Se l’Immortalità non sveli
Un terzo evento a me
Così immenso, così disperato a concepirsi
Come questi che due volte accaddero.
Separarsi è tutto ciò che sappiamo del cielo,
E tutto ciò che ci occorre dell’inferno.
The distance that the dead have gone
Does not at first appear —
Their coming back seems possible
For many an ardent year.
And then, that we have followed them,
We more than half suspect,
So intimate have we become
With their dear retrospect.
La distanza che i morti han percorso
Dapprima non appare —
Il loro ritorno sembra possibile
Per molti anni ardenti.
E poi, che li abbiamo seguiti,
Più che a metà sospettiamo,
Così intimi siamo divenuti
Del loro caro sguardo a ritroso.
Which misses most,
The hand that tends,
Or heart so gently borne,
‘Tis twice as heavy as it was
Because the hand is gone?
Which blesses most,
The lip that can,
Or that that went to sleep
With “if I could” endeavoring
Without the strength to shape?
Chi sente più la mancanza,
La mano che accudisce,
O il cuore così dolcemente portato,
Ch’è due volte più greve di com’era
Perché la mano è andata?
Chi benedice più,
Il labbro che può,
O quello che andò a dormire
Con “se potessi” sforzandosi
Senza la forza di dar forma?
Mr. Humphrey, spoken of in the following letter, is the same friend of whom Emily had already written (page 22); he graduated from Amherst as valedictorian in 1846, being subsequently Principal of the well-known Amherst Academy, and still later a theological student at Andover, and tutor in Amherst College. His sudden death, November 30, 1850, caused much grief to his many friends, who admired his polished scholarship and lovable personality.
Panting to help the dear ones and yet not knowing how, lest any voice bereave them but that loved voice that will not come, if I can rest them, here is down—or rescue, here is power.
One who only said “I am sorry” helped me the most when father ceased—it was too soon for language.
Fearing to tell mother, some one disclosed it unknown to us. Weeping bitterly, we tried to console her. She only replied “I loved him so.”
Had he a tenderer eulogy?
To Mrs. Holland, on the marriage of her daughter Annie, December 7, 1881.
SWEET SISTER,—We were much relieved to know that the dear event had occurred without overwhelming any loved one, and perhaps it is sweeter and safer so. I feared much for the parting, to you, to whom parting has come so thickly in the last few days. I knew all would be beautiful, and rejoice it was. Few daughters have the immortality of a father for a bridal gift. Could there be one more costly?
As we never have ceased to think of you, we will more tenderly, now. Confide our happiness to Annie, in her happiness. We hope the unknown balm may ease the balm withdrawn.
You and Katie, the little sisters, lose her, yet obtain her, for each new width of love largens all the rest. Mother and Vinnie think and speak. Vinnie hopes to write. Would that mother could, but her poor hand is idle. Shall I return to you your last and sweetest words—“But I love you all”?
Dare we wish the brave sister a sweet Christmas, who remembered us punctually in sorrow as in peace?
The broken heart is broadest. Had it come all the way in your little hand, it could not have reached us perfecter, though had it, we should have clutched the hand and forgot the rest.
Fearing the day had associations of anguish to you, I was just writing when your token came. Then, humbled with wonder at your self-forgetting, I delayed till now. Reminded again of gigantic Emily Brontë, of whom her Charlotte said “Full of ruth for others, on herself she had no mercy.” The hearts that never lean, must fall. To moan is justified.
To thank you for remembering under the piercing circumstances were a profanation.
God bless the hearts that suppose they are beating and are not, and enfold in His infinite tenderness those that do not know they are beating and are.
Shall we wish a triumphant Christmas to the brother withdrawn? Certainly he possesses it.
How much of Source escapes with thee— How chief thy sessions be— For thou hast borne a universe Entirely away.
Perhaps you thought I didn’t care—because I stayed out, yesterday. I did care, Mr. Bowles. I pray for your sweet health to Allah every morning, but something troubled me, and I knew you needed light and air, so I didn’t come. Nor have I conceit that you noticed me—but I couldn’t bear that you, or Mary, so gentle to me, should think me forgetful.
It’s little at the most, we can do for ours, and we must do that flying, or our things are flown!
Dear friend, I wish you were well.
It grieves me till I cannot speak, that you are suffering. Won’t you come back? Can’t I bring you something? My little balm might be o’erlooked by wiser eyes, you know. Have you tried the breeze that swings the sign, or the hoof of the dandelion? I own ‘em—wait for mine! This is all I have to say. Kinsmen need say nothing, but “Swiveller” may be sure of the
DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot see you. You will not less believe me. That you return to us alive is better than a summer, and more to hear your voice below than news of any bird.
When you can leave your little children, L——, you must tell us all you know about dear Myra’s going, so sudden, and shocking to us all, we are only bewildered and cannot believe the telegrams: I want so much to see you, and ask you what it means, and why this young life’s sacrifice should come so soon, and not far off. I wake in the morning saying “Myra, no more Myra in this world,” and the thought of that young face in the dark, makes the whole so sorrowful, I cover my face with the blanket, so the robins’ singing cannot get through—I had rather not hear it. Was Myra willing to leave us all? I want so much to know if it was very hard, husband and babies and big life and sweet home by the sea. I should think she would rather have stayed… . She came to see us first in May. I remember her frock, and how prettily she fixed her hair, and she and Vinnie took long walks, and got home to tea at sundown; and now remembering is all there is, and no more Myra. I wish ‘twas plainer, L——, the anguish in this world. I wish one could be sure the suffering had a loving side. The thought to look down some day, and see the crooked steps we came, from a safer place, must be a precious thing… .
L——, you are a dear child to go to Uncle J——, and all will thank you, who love him. We will remember you every day, and the little children, and make a picture to ourself, of the small mamma… . Father and Vinnie would have gone immediately to Lynn, but got the telegram too late. Tell Uncle they wanted to. But what can Emily say? Their Father in Heaven remember them and her.
My little girls have alarmed me so that notwithstanding the comfort of Austin’s assurance that “they will come,” I am still hopeless and scared, and regard Commencement as some vast anthropic bear, ordained to eat me up. What made ‘em scare ‘em so? Didn’t they know Cousin Aspen couldn’t stand alone? I remember a tree in McLean Street, when you and we were a little girl, whose leaves went topsy-turvy as often as a wind, and showed an ashen side —that’s fright, that’s Emily. L——and F——were that wind, and the poor leaf, who? Won’t they stop a’ blowing? … Commencement would be a dreary spot without my double flower, that sows itself, and just comes up, when Emily seeks it most. Austin gives excellent account, I trust not overdrawn. “Health and aspect admirable, and lodgings very fine.” Says the rooms were marble, even to the flies. Do they dwell in Carrara? Did they find the garden in the gown? Should have sent a farm, but feared for our button-hole. Hope to hear favorable news on receipt of this. Please give date of coming, so we might prepare our heart.
So many ask for the children that I must make a separate letter to tell them what they say, and leave my kisses till next time.
Eliza wrote last week, faint note in pencil—dressed in blankets, and propped up, having been so sick—and yet too weak to talk much, even with her slate. She said this of you, I give it in her own word, “Make them know I love them,” and added, should have written immediately herself, except for weakness.
Mr. Dwight asks for you in the phrase “Of your sweet cousins.” He does not yet know papa is asleep—only very weary.
The milliner at the head of the street wipes her eye for F——and L——, and a tear rumples her ribbons. Mr. and Mrs. Sweetser care—Mrs. Sweetser most tenderly.
… Even Dick’s wife, simple dame, with a kitchen full, and the grave besides, of little ragged ones, wants to know “more about” you, and follows mother to the door, who has called with bundle.
Dick says, in his wise way, he “shall always be interested in them young ladies.” One little young lady of his own, you know, is in Paradise. That makes him tenderer-minded.
Be sure you don’t doubt about the sparrow.
Poor——and——, in their genteel, antique way, express their sympathy, mixing admiring anecdotes of your father and mother’s youth, when they, God help them, were not so sere. Besides these others, children, shall we tell them who else cherishes, every day the same, the bright one and the black one too? Could it be Emily?
Would it interest the children to know that crocuses come up, in the garden off the dining-room, and a fuchsia, that pussy partook, mistaking it for strawberries? And that we have primroses, like the little pattern sent in last winter’s note, and heliotrope by the aprons full—the mountain colored one—and a jasmine bud, you know the little odor like Lubin—and gilliflowers, magenta, and few mignonette, and sweet alyssum bountiful, and carnation bud?
Will it please them to know that the ice-house is filled, to make their tumblers cool next summer, and once in a while a cream?
And that father has built a new road round the pile of trees between our house and Mr. S——‘s, where they can take the soldier’s shirt to make, or a sweet poem, and no man find them but the fly, and he such a little man?
Love, dears, from us all, and won’t you tell us how you are?
We seem to hear so little.
UNTTRING LITTLE SISTERS,—What will I ever do for you, yet have done the most, for love is that one perfect labor nought can supersede. I suppose the pain is still there, for pain that is worthy does not go so soon. The small can crush the great, however, only temporarily. In a few days we examine, muster our forces, and cast it away. Put it out of your hearts, children. Faith is too fair to taint it so. There are those in the morgue that bewitch us with sweetness, but that which is dead must go with the ground. There is a verse in the Bible that says there are those who shall not see death. I suppose them to be the faithful. Love will not expire. There was never the instant when it was lifeless in the world, though the quicker deceit dies, the better. for the truth, who is indeed our dear friend.
I am sure you will gain, even from this wormwood. The martyrs may not choose their food.
God made no act without a cause, Nor heart without an aim, Our inference is premature, Our premises to blame.
… Sweetest of Christmas to you both, and a better year.
We have the little note and are in part relieved, but have been too alarmed and grieved to hush immediately. The heart keeps sobbing in its sleep. It is the speck that makes the cloud that wrecks the vessel, children, yet no one fears a speck. I hope what is not lost is saved. Were any angel present, I feel it could not be allowed. So grateful that our little girls are not on fire too. Amherst would have quenched them. Thank you for comforting innocent blamed creatures. We are trying, too. The mayor of Milwaukee cuts and you and L——sew, don’t you? The New York Times said so. Sorrow is the “funds” never quite spent, always a little left to be loaned kindly. We have a new cow. I wish I could give Wisconsin a little pail of milk. Dick’s Maggie is wilting. Awkward little slower, but transplanting makes it fair. How are the long days that made the fresh afraid?
Little Irish Maggie went to sleep this morning at six o’clock, just the time grandpa rises, and will rest in the grass at Northampton to-morrow. She has had a hard sickness, but her awkward little life is saved and gallant now. Our Maggie is helping her mother put her in the cradle… .
Month after this—after that is October, isn’t it? That isn’t much long. Joy to enfold our little girls in so close a future. That was a lovely letter of F——‘s. It put the cat to playing and the kettle to purring, and two or three birds in plush teams reined nearer to the window… . You will miss the nasturtiums, but you will meet the chestnuts. You also will miss the south wind, but I will save the west… .
Of course we shall have a telegram that you have left for Nebraska… .
Did the little sisters know that Dr. Holland had died—the dark man with the doll-wife, whom they used to see at “Uncle Edward’s” before “Uncle Edward” went too?
Do they know any of the circumstances?
Did they know that the weary life in the second story had mourned to hear from them, and whether they were “comfortable”? “Comfortable” seems to comprise the whole to those whose days are weak. “Happiness” is for birds and other foreign nations, in their faint esteem.
Mother heard F——telling Vinnie about her graham bread. She would like to taste it. Will F——please write Emily how, and not too inconvenient? Every particular, for Emily is dull, and she will pay in gratitude, which, though not canned like quinces, is fragrantest of all we know.
Tell us just how and where they are, and if October sunshine is thoughtful of their heads.
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.
Her father’s death (June 16) swept away all her landmarks. To this friend she wrote:—
DEAR FRIEND,—Mother was paralyzed Tuesday, a year from the evening father died. I thought perhaps you would care.
DEAR FRIEND,—I am sorry your brother is dead. I fear he was dear to you. I should be glad to know you were painlessly grieved.
Of Heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know— Except for its marauding hand It had been heaven below.
DEAR FRIEND,—We must be less than Death to be lessened by it, for nothing is irrevocable but ourselves.
I am glad you are better. I had feared to follow you, lest you would rather be lonely, which is the will of sorrow; but the papers had spoken of you with affectionate deference, and to know you were deeply remembered might not too intrude.
To be human is more than to be divine, for when Christ was divine he was uncontented till he had been human.
I remember nothing so strong as to see you… .
It is long since I knew of you, Peter, and much may have happened to both; but that is the rarest book, which, opened at whatever page, equally enchants us.
I hope that you have power, and as much of peace as in our deep existence may be possible.
To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
We learn, through cousin Montague, that you have lost your sister through that sweeter loss which we call gain.
I am glad she is glad.
Her early pain had seemed to me peculiarly cruel. Tell her how tenderly we are pleased.
Recall me too to your other sisters, who though they may have mislaid me, I can always find; and include me to your sweet wife. We are daily reminded of you by the clergyman, Mr. Jenkins, whom you strongly resemble.
Thank you for the paper. It is homelike to know where you are.
We can almost hear you announce the text, when the air is clear; and how social if you should preach us a note some Sunday in recess!
Upon receiving an account of little Margie’s life and death
… To relieve the irreparable degrades it.
Brabantio’s resignation is the only one—“I here do give thee that with all my heart, which but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.”
SWEET FRIEND,—Our mother ceased. While we bear her dear form through the wilderness, I am sure you are with us.
… He never spoke of himself, and encroachment I know would have slain him… . He was a dusk gem, born of troubled waters, astray in any crest below. Heaven might give him peace, it could not give him grandeur, for that he carried with himself to whatever scene… .
Obtaining but his own extent In whatsoever realm, ‘Twas Christ’s own personal expanse That bore him from the tomb.
DEAR FRIEND,—To thank you is impossible, because your gifts are from the sky, more precious than the birds, because more disembodied. I can only express my rejoiced surprise by the phrase in the Scripture, “And I saw the Heavens opened.” …
Fathoms are sudden neighbors.
Ignorant till your note that our President’s dying had defrauded you, we are grieved anew, and hasten to offer you our sorrow.
We shall make Mrs. Chadbourne’s acquaintance in flowers after a few days. “Displeasure” would be a morose word toward a friend so earnest, and we only fear when you delay, that you feel more ill. Allow us to hear the birds for you, should they indeed come.
DEAR FRIEND,—The sorrowful tidings of your note almost dissuade reply, lest I for one moment take you from your brother’s bedside. I have delayed to tell my sister till I hear again, fearing to newly grieve her, and hoping an encouraging word by another mail.
Please be sure we are with you in sorrowing thought, and take your brother’s hand for me, if it is still with you. Perhaps the one has called him of whom we have so often talked during this grieved year.
DEAR FRIEND,—While I thank you immediately for the invaluable gift, I cannot express the bereavement that I am no more to behold it. Believing that we are to have no face in a farther life, makes the look of a friend a boon almost too precious.
The resemblance is faithful—the scholarly gentleness—the noble modesty—the absence of every dross, quite there. What a consoling prize to you, his mate through years of anguish so much sharper to see because endured so willingly.
Chastening would seem unneeded by so supreme a spirit.
I feel great grief for you—I hope his memory may help you, so recently a life. I wish I might say one liquid word to make your sorrow less. Is not the devotion that you gave him an acute balm? Had you not been with him how solitary the will of God!
Thank you for every word of his pure career. I hope it is nearer us than we are aware. Will you not still tell us of yourself and your home—from which this patient guest has flown? I am glad he lies near us—and thank you for the tidings of our other fugitive, whom to know was life. I can scarcely tell you how deeply I cherish your thoughtfulness. To still know of the dead is a great permission, and you have almost enabled that. With the ceaseless sympathy of myself and my sister, and the trust that our sufferer rests,
DEAR FRIEND,—I hoped it might gratify you to meet the little flower which was my final ministry to your brother, and which even in that faint hour, I trust he recognized, though the thronged spirit had not access to words.
These are my first out, and their golden trifles are too full of association to remain unshared.
With faithful thought of yourself and your brother, brothers in bereavement even as myself,
DEAR FRIEND,—Though no New Year be old, to wish yourself and your honored father a new and happy one is involuntary, and I am sure we are both reminded of that sacred past which has forever hallowed us.
I trust the years which they behold are also new and happy, or is it a joyous expanse of year, without bisecting months—untiring Anno Domini? Had we but one assuring word, but a letter is a joy of earth—it is denied the gods. Vivid in our immortal group we still behold your brother, and never hear Northampton bells without saluting him… .
Have you blossoms and books, those solaces of sorrow? That, I would also love to know, and receive for yourself and your father the forgetless sympathy of
To a niece of her father’s, who had sent for his grave the roses alluded to, she wrote:—
DEAR FRIEND,—It was pathetic to see your voice, instead of hearing it, for it had grown sweetly familiar in the house, as a bird’s.
Father left us in June—you leave us in May. I am glad there will be no April till another year… .
Sorrow is unsafe, when it is real sorrow—I am glad so many are counterfeits—guileless because they believe themselves.
Kiss “Diddie” and Mac for us—precious refugees, with love for our brother, whom with yourself, we follow the peculiar distance, “even unto the end.”
Perhaps it is “the end” now—I think the bell thought so, because it bade us all good-by when you stood in the door.
You concealed that you heard it. Thank you.
You deserved a tiding before, dear.
Your little punctualities are generous and precious… .
There is a circus here, and farmers’ Commencement, and boys and girls from Tripoli, and Governors and swords parade the summer streets. They lean upon the fence that guards the quiet church ground, and jar the grass, now warm and soft as a tropic nest.
Many people call, and wish for you with tears, and Vinnie beats her wings like a maddened bird, whose home has been invaded.
So much has been sorrow, that to fall asleep in Tennyson’s verse, seems almost a pillow. “To where beyond these voices there is Peace.”
I hope you are each safe. It is homeless without you, and we think of others possessing you with the throe of Othello.
Mother gives her love—Maggie pleads her own. Austin smiles when you mention him… .
Daisies and ferns are with us, and he whose meadow they magnify, is always linked with you.
At the death of Professor Snell, September 18, 1876, Emily sent to his family a beautiful mass of flowers, purple and white; and with them, this single line:—
I had a father once.
“A little flower, a faded flower, the gift of one who cared for me.”
Please usurp the pronoun. Emily
Vinnie says the dear friend would like the rule. We have no statutes here, but each does as it will, which is the sweetest jurisprudence.
With it, I enclose Love’s “remainder biscuit,” somewhat scorched perhaps in baking, but “Love’s oven is warm.” Forgive the base proportions.
The fairer ones were borne away. The canna was a privilege, the little box a bliss, and the blossoms so real that a fly waylaid them, but I lured him away.
Again receive the love which comes without aspect, and without herald goes.
DEAR FRIEND,—I thought of you, although I never saw your friend.
Brother of Ophir, Bright adieu, Honor the shortest Route to you.
We wear our sober dresses when we die, But summer, frilled as for a holiday, Adjourns her sigh.
Be encouraged, sweet friend! How cruel we did not know! But the battles of those we love are often unseen.
“If Thou hadst been here,” Mary said, “our brother had not died.” Hanging my head and my heart with it, that you sorrowed alone,
DEAR FRIEND,—I thought of you on your lonely journey, certain the hallowed heroine was gratified, though mute. I trust you return in safety and with closer clutch for that which remains, for dying whets the grasp.
October is a mighty month, for in it little Gilbert died. “Open the door,” was his last cry, “the boys are waiting for me.” Quite used to his commandment, his little aunt obeyed, and still two years and many days, and he does not return.
Where makes my lark his nest?
But Corinthians’ bugle obliterates the birds’, so covering your loved heart to keep it from another shot,
DEAR FRIEND,—It was my first impulse to take them to my father, whom I cannot resist the grief to expect.
Thank you.
On the anniversary of her father’s death, June 16, 1875
DEAR Friend,—You thought of it.
How dear, how delicate!
How can one be fatherless who has a father’s friend within confiding reach?
DEAR FRIEND,—It distressed us that you were pained.
Are you easier now?
You have sheltered our tears too often that yours should fall unsolaced.
Give us half the thorn—then it will tear you less. To divulge itself is sorrow’s right, never its presumption.
We are ignorant of the dear friends, and eager to know how they are, and assure them that we are near them in these grieved hours.
DEAR FRIEND,—Affection wants you to know it is here. Demand it to the utmost.
Cousin T———and Cousin O———little thought when they were paying their antiquated respects to Aunt Katie that they were defrauding Emily of that last moment—but they needed it most—new moments will grow.
When I found it beyond my power to see you, I designed to write you, immediately, but the Lords came as you went, and Judge Lord was my father’s closest friend, so I shared my moments with them till they left us last Monday; then seeing directly after, the death of your loved Dr. A———, I felt you might like to be alone—though Death is perhaps an intimate friend, not an enemy. Beloved Shakespeare says, “He that is robbed and smiles, steals something from the thief.” …
Maggie said you asked should you “eat the slower.” Please consult the bees—they are the only authority on Etruscan matters. Vinnie said the sherry I sent you was brandy—a vital misapprehension. Please also forgive it. I did not intend to be so base to the aunt who showed me the first mignonette, and listened with me to the great wheel, from Uncle Underwood’s “study,” and won me in “divers other ways” too lovely to mention. Of all this we will talk when you come again.
DEAR FRIEND,—Thank you for being willing to see me, but may I defer so rare a pleasure till you come again? Grief is a sable introduction, but a vital one, and I deem that I knew you long since through your shielding thought.
I hope you may have an electrical absence, as life never loses its startlingness, however assailed. “Seen of angels” only, an enthralling aim.
Thank you for the kindness, the fervor of a stranger the latest forgot.
DEAR FRIEND,—The Amherst heart is plain and whole and permanent and warm.
In childhood I never sowed a seed unless it was perennial —and that is why my garden lasts.
We dare not trust ourselves to know that you indeed have left us.
The fiction is sufficient pain. To know you better as you flee, may be our recompense.
I hope that you are well, and nothing mars your peace but its divinity—for ecstasy is peril.
It is hard for many persons to believe, even now, that Emily Dickinson had nothing to do with the Saxe Holm stories, and certainly some of their incidental poetry bears strong evidence of her unique touch. The little mystery of those remarkable tales was so carefully guarded that after a time people lost interest in surmising, and are now content to accept them as they are. The No Name series of Roberts Brothers was not so long a secret, and in the volume of its verse, A Masque of Poets, appeared, probably through the efforts of her old friend “H. H.,” Emily Dickinson’s Success, afterward the opening poem in the first of her published volumes. However obtained, it formed the beginning of an occasional and pleasant correspondence between herself and Mr. Niles, always the genial, helpful, and generous friend of writers. She often sent him poems, which, contrary to her usual custom, she had named herself.
Thank you, Mr. Niles.
I am very grateful for the mistake. I should think it irreparable deprivation to know no farther of her here, with the impregnable chances.
The kind but incredible opinion of “H. H.” and yourself I would like to deserve.
Would you accept a pebble I think I gave to her, though I am not sure.
DEAR FRIEND,—Thank you for the kindness.
I am glad if the bird seemed true to you.
Please efface the others, and receive these three, which are more like him—A Thunder Storm,16 A Humming Bird,17 and A Country Burial.18
The life of Marian Evans had much I never knew—a doom of fruit without the bloom, like the Niger fig:—
Her losses make our gains ashamed— She bore life’s empty pack As gallantly as if the East Were swinging at her back. Life’s empty pack is heaviest, As every porter knows— In vain to punish honey, It only sweeter grows.
What book may be thus described is, unhappily, not known, as I have been unable to discover even to whom the note was written.
A severe disappointment in the preparation of these volumes is the fact that Emily’s letters to “H. H.” cannot be found.
Entertained delightfully during the summer of 1893 at Mr. Jackson’s lovely home in Colorado Springs, I was very happy to learn that these letters had certainly not been destroyed. During the months before her death Mrs. Jackson had herself arranged her mass of papers, letters, and manuscripts, each marked for its fate; and Emily’s letters were especially reserved in a package apart, as unique and too valuable to share the fate of much other correspondence. But though careful search has been most kindly made by her family, the letters still remain in hiding, and the inference is that they must have been accidentally destroyed in flames intended for other things.
Among Emily’s own papers I have found this draft of a letter to Mrs. Jackson, discarded on account of a number of substituted words; and I give it just as it is, with both erasures and substitutes, as an interesting study of her afterthoughts:—
Sometime during this month, also, she wrote her cousins:—
Thank you, dear friend, I am better. The velocity of the ill, however, is like that of the snail. I am glad of your father’s tranquillity, and of your own courage. Fear makes us all martial.
I could hardly have thought it possible that the scholarly stranger to whom my father introduced me, could have mentioned my friend, almost itself a vision, or have still left a legend to relate his name. With the exception of——… your name alone remains.
“Going home,” was he not an aborigine of the sky?
The last time he came in life I was with my lilies and heliotropes. Said my sister to me, “The gentleman with the deep voice wants to see you, Emily”—hearing him ask of the servant.
“Where did you come from?” I said, for he spoke like an apparition. “I stepped from my pulpit to the train,” was his simple reply; and, when I asked, “how long?”—“twenty years,” said he, with inscrutable roguery.
But the loved voice has ceased; and to some one who heard him “going home” it was sweet to speak… . Thank you for each circumstance, and tell me all you love to say… .
Excuse me for the voice, this moment immortal.