Oh if remembering were forgetting -
Then I remember not!
And if forgetting - recollecting -
How near I had forgot!
And if to miss - were merry -
And to mourn were gay,
How very blithe the maiden
Who gathered these today!
Oh se ricordare fosse dimenticare -
Allora io non ricordo!
E se dimenticare - rammentare -
Quanto ero vicina ad aver dimenticato!
E se rimpiangere - fosse lieto -
E far cordoglio fosse gaio,
Che gioconda la fanciulla
Che colse questi oggi!
Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so ?
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there ;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry !
Hai un ruscello nel tuo piccolo cuore,
Dove fiori timidi sbocciano,
E uccelli arrossenti scendono a bere,
E le ombre tremano tanto ?
E nessuno sa, tanto quieto scorre,
Che vi sia lì alcun ruscello ;
Eppure il tuo piccolo sorso di vita
Vi è attinto ogni giorno.
Bada allora al piccolo ruscello in Marzo,
Quando i fiumi straripano,
E le nevi accorrono in fretta dai colli,
E i ponti spesso se ne vanno.
E più tardi, in Agosto può darsi,
Quando i prati giacciono riarsi,
Bada, che questo piccolo ruscello di vita
In qualche mezzogiorno ardente non si secchi !
In Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!
To hold a letter to the light —
Grown Tawny now, with time —
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!
Perhaps a Flower’s shrivelled check
Among its stores to find —
Plucked far away, some morning —
By gallant — mouldering hand!
A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot —
Perhaps, an Antique trinket —
In vanished fashions set!
And then to lay them quiet back —
And go about its care —
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!
In Cofanetto d’Ebano, quando gli anni saranno volati
Scrutare con reverenza,
Detergendo la vellutata polvere
Che le Estati vi hanno sparso!
Tenere una lettera contro la luce —
Fatta ormai Fulva, dal tempo —
Compitare le sillabe sbiadite
Che ci accesero come Vino!
Forse d’un Fiore la guancia avvizzita
Tra le sue scorte trovare —
Colto lontano, un mattino —
Da galante — marcescente mano!
Un ricciolo, forse, da fronti
Che la nostra Costanza dimenticò —
Forse, un Antico monile —
Montato in fogge svanite!
E poi riporli quieti —
E tornare alle proprie cure —
Come se il piccolo Cofanetto d’Ebano
Non fosse affar nostro!
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done —
Seems Summer’s Recollection
And the Affairs of June
As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella’s Bays —
Or Little John — of Lincoln Green —
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries —
Her Bees have a fictitious Hum —
Her Blossoms, like a Dream —
Elate us — till we almost weep —
So plausible — they seem —
Her Memories like Strains — Review —
When Orchestra is dumb —
The Violin in Baize replaced —
And Ear — and Heaven — numb —
Come un Qualche Miracolo all’Antica
Quando la Stagione estiva è compiuta —
Pare il Ricordo dell’Estate
E le Vicende di Giugno
Tanto infinita Tradizione
Quanto gli Allori di Cenerentola —
O Little John — in Verde di Lincoln —
O le Gallerie di Barbablù —
Le sue Api hanno un Ronzio fittizio —
I suoi Fiori, come un Sogno —
Ci esaltano — fin quasi al pianto —
Così plausibili — sembrano —
Le sue Memorie come Melodie — Ritornano —
Quando l’Orchestra è muta —
Il Violino riposto nel suo Panno —
E Orecchio — e Cielo — attoniti —
Over and over, like a Tune —
The Recollection plays —
Drums off the Phantom Battlements
Cornets of Paradise —
Snatches, from Baptized Generations —
Cadences too grand
But for the Justified Processions
At the Lord’s Right hand.
Sempre e ancora, come una Melodia —
Il Ricordo suona —
Rulla giù dagli Spalti Fantasma
Cornette di Paradiso —
Frammenti, da Generazioni Battezzate —
Cadenze troppo grandi
Se non per le Processioni Giustificate
Alla Destra del Signore.
Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how
Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now —
I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show
“How to forget”!
Say — some — Philosopher!
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!
Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it —
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know —
If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don’t you know?
Sa come dimenticare!
Ma potrebbe insegnarlo?
La più facile delle Arti, dicono
Quando si impara come
Cuori ottusi son morti
Nell’Acquisizione
Sacrificarsi per la Scienza
È comune, però, ormai —
Andai a Scuola
Ma non ne fui più saggia
Il Globo non lo insegnò
Né il Logaritmo lo Mostrò
“Come dimenticare”!
Dica — qualche — Filosofo!
Ah, essere eruditi
Abbastanza da saperlo!
È in un Libro?
Così, potrei comprarlo —
È come un Pianeta?
I Telescopi lo saprebbero —
Se è invenzione
Deve avere un Brevetto.
Rabbino del Libro Sapiente
Tu non lo sai?
They say that “Time assuages” —
Time never did assuage —
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age —
Time is a Test of Trouble —
But not a Remedy —
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady —
Dicono che “il Tempo mitiga” —
Il Tempo non ha mai mitigato —
Una vera sofferenza si rafforza
Come i Tendini, con l’età —
Il Tempo è una Prova dell’Affanno —
Ma non un Rimedio —
Se tale si dimostra, dimostra anche
Che non c’era Malattia —
A Thought went up my mind today —
That I have had before —
But did not finish — some way back —
I could not fix the Year —
Nor where it went — nor why it came
The second time to me —
Nor definitely, what it was —
Have I the Art to say —
But somewhere — in my Soul — I know —
I’ve met the Thing before —
It just reminded me — ‘twas all —
And came my way no more —
Un Pensiero mi salì alla mente oggi —
Che avevo avuto già —
Ma non conclusi — tempo addietro —
Non saprei fissare l’Anno —
Né dove andò — né perché venne
La seconda volta a me —
Né con certezza, che cosa fosse —
Ho io l’Arte di dire —
Ma in qualche luogo — nella mia Anima — so —
Ho già incontrato quella Cosa —
Mi ha soltanto rammentato — ecco tutto —
E non venne più sulla mia via —
A South Wind — has a pathos
Of individual Voice —
As One detect on Landings
An Emigrant’s address.
A Hint of Ports and Peoples —
And much not understood —
The fairer — for the farness —
And for the foreignhood.
Un Vento del Sud — ha un pathos
Di Voce individuale —
Come Chi coglie sugli Approdi
La parlata di un Emigrante.
Un Sentore di Porti e di Popoli —
E molto non compreso —
Più bello — per la lontananza —
E per la forestierità.
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir,---
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
It’s past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.
Remorse is cureless,---the disease
Not even God can heal;
For ‘t is his institution,---
The complement of hell.
Il rimorso è memoria desta,
Le sue compagnie in fermento,---
Una presenza di atti passati
Alla finestra e alla porta.
Il suo passato disposto innanzi all’anima,
E illuminato con un fiammifero,
Per facilitarne la lettura
Del suo condensato dispaccio.
Il rimorso è incurabile,---il male
Che nemmeno Dio può sanare;
Poiché è sua istituzione,---
Il complemento dell’inferno.
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.
Un Giorno v’è della Serie
Detto Giorno del Ringraziamento.
Celebrato parte a Tavola
Parte in Memoria.
Né Patriarca né Micia
Io disseco la Recita
Pare al mio Incappucciato pensiero
Riflesso di Festa.
Non fosse stata la brusca Sottrazione
Dalla Somma di un tempo —
Non un Acro o una Didascalia
Dove un tempo era una Stanza —
Non una Menzione, il cui piccolo Ciottolo
Increspò alcun Mare,
Per Costoro, fosse tale Assemblea
Sarebbe Giorno del Ringraziamento.
A Cloud withdrew from the Sky
Superior Glory be
But that Cloud and its Auxiliaries
Are forever lost to me
Had I but further scanned
Had I secured the Glow
In an Hermetic Memory
It had availed me now.
Never to pass the Angel
With a glance and a Bow
Till I am firm in Heaven
Is my intention now.
Una Nuvola si ritirò dal Cielo
Superiore Gloria sia
Ma quella Nuvola e le sue Ausiliarie
Sono per sempre perdute per me
Avessi solo scrutato oltre
Avessi fissato il Bagliore
In un’Ermetica Memoria
Mi gioverebbe ora.
Mai più passare oltre l’Angelo
Con un’occhiata e un Inchino
Finché non sia salda in Cielo
È il mio proposito ora.
How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom
Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.
Com’ero felice se potessi dimenticare
Ricordare quanto sono triste
Sarebbe una facile avversità
Ma il rammentare la Fioritura
Rende Novembre difficile
Finché io che ero quasi ardita
Smarrisco la via come un piccolo Bimbo
E perisco di freddo.
The first Day that I was a Life
I recollect it — How still —
That last Day that I was a Life
I recollect it — as well —
‘Twas stiller — though the first
Was still —
“Twas empty — but the first
Was full —
This — was my finallest Occasion —
But then
My tenderer Experiment
Toward Men —
“Which choose I”?
That — I cannot say —
“Which choose They”?
Question Memory!
Il primo Giorno che fui una Vita
Lo rammento — Che quiete —
Quell’ultimo Giorno che fui una Vita
Lo rammento — ugualmente —
Era più quieto — benché il primo
Fosse quieto —
“Era vuoto — ma il primo
Era pieno —
Questa — fu la mia finalissima Occasione —
Ma allora
Il mio più tenero Esperimento
Verso gli Uomini —
“Quale scelgo Io”?
Questo — non so dire —
“Quale scelgono Loro”?
Interroga la Memoria!
This was in the White of the Year —
That — was in the Green —
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As Daisies now to be seen —
Looking back is best that is left
Or if it be — before —
Retrospection is Prospect’s half,
Sometimes, almost more.
Questo fu nel Bianco dell’Anno —
Quello — fu nel Verde —
I Cumuli eran sì ardui allora a pensarsi
Come le Margherite ora a vedersi —
Guardare indietro è il meglio che resta
O se pure sia — davanti —
La Retrospezione è metà del Prospetto,
Talvolta, quasi più.
The Snow that never drifts —
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now —
So thorough in the Tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February’s Foot
Experience would swear —
Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature’s Alibi —
Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be —
We buy with contrast — Pang is good
As near as memory —
La Neve che mai s’ammucchia —
La transitoria, fragrante neve
Che viene una sola volta l’Anno
Ora lieve sta turbinando —
Così compiuta nell’Albero
Di notte sotto la stella
Che fosse il Piede di Febbraio
L’Esperienza giurerebbe —
Come l’Inverno quale Volto
Che severo e antico conoscemmo
Sanato di tutto fuorché della Solitudine
Dall’Alibi della Natura —
Fosse ogni tempesta così spezia
Il Valore non potrebbe darsi —
Compriamo col contrasto — la Fitta è buona
Quanto le è vicina la memoria —
Remembrance has a Rear and Front —
‘Tis something like a House —
It has a Garret also
For Refuse and the Mouse.
Besides the deepest Cellar
That ever Mason laid —
Look to it by its Fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued —
La Rimembranza ha un Retro e una Facciata —
È qualcosa come una Casa —
Ha anche una Soffitta
Per i Rifiuti e il Topo.
Oltre alla più profonda Cantina
Che mai Muratore posò —
Bada ai suoi Abissi
Che noi stessi non siamo inseguiti —
To make Routine a Stimulus
Remember it can cease —
Capacity to Terminate
Is a Specific Grace —
Of Retrospect the Arrow
That power to repair
Departed with the Torment
Become, alas, more fair —
Fare della Routine uno Stimolo
Ricorda che può cessare —
La Capacità di Terminare
È una Grazia Specifica —
Della Retrospezione la Freccia
Quel potere di riparare
Partito con il Tormento
Divenuto, ahimè, più bello —
Had this one Day not been.
Or could it cease to be
How smitten, how superfluous,
Were every other Day!
Lest Love should value less
What Loss would value more
Had it the stricken privilege,
It cherishes before.
Non fosse stato questo unico Giorno.
O potesse cessare d’essere
Come colpito, come superfluo,
Sarebbe ogni altro Giorno!
Perché Amore non stimi meno
Ciò che Perdita stimerebbe più
Se avesse lo straziato privilegio,
Esso lo predilige prima.
That sacred Closet when you sweep —
Entitled “Memory” —
Select a reverential Broom —
And do it silently.
‘Twill be a Labor of surprise —
Besides Identity
Of other Interlocutors
A probability —
August the Dust of that Domain —
Unchallenged — let it lie —
You cannot supersede itself
But it can silence you —
Quel sacro Ripostiglio quando lo spazzi —
Intitolato “Memoria” —
Scegli una Scopa reverente —
E fallo in silenzio.
Sarà un Lavoro di sorpresa —
Oltre all’Identità
Di altri Interlocutori
Una probabilità —
Augusta la Polvere di quel Dominio —
Incontestata — lasciala giacere —
Tu non puoi soppiantarla
Ma essa ti può zittire —
One thing of it we borrow
And promise to return —
The Booty and the Sorrow
Its Sweetness to have known —
One thing of it we covet —
The power to forget —
The Anguish of the Avarice
Defrays the Dross of it —
Una cosa ne prendiamo in prestito
E promettiamo di renderla —
Il Bottino e la Pena
D’averne conosciuto la Dolcezza —
Una cosa ne bramiamo —
Il potere di dimenticare —
L’Angoscia dell’Avarizia
Ne ripaga la Scoria —
You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root —
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant —
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant —
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown —
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown —
Non puoi far crescere la Rimembranza
Quando ha perduto la sua Radice —
Lo stringere la Terra intorno
E il rimetterla dritta
Inganna forse l’Universo
Ma non recupera la Pianta —
La vera Memoria, come Piedi di Cedro
È calzata d’Adamante —
Né puoi abbattere la Rimembranza
Quando una volta sarà cresciuta —
Le sue Gemme di Ferro germoglieranno di nuovo
Per quanto rovesciata —
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery —
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in —
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring —
Of juleps, part are in the Jug
And more are in the joy —
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee —
Un Ubriacone non può incontrare un Tappo
Senza una Fantasticheria —
E così incontrando una Mosca
In questo Giorno di Gennaio
Giamaiche di Ricordo si destano
Che mi mandano dentro barcollando —
Il bevitore moderato di Delizia
Non merita la primavera —
Dei giulebbi, parte è nella Brocca
E più ancora nella gioia —
Il vostro intenditore di Liquori
Consulta il Bombo —
Through those old Grounds of memory,
The sauntering alone
Is a divine intemperance
A prudent man would shun.
Of liquors that are vended
’Tis easy to beware
But statutes do not meddle
With the internal bar.
Pernicious as the sunset
Permitting to pursue
But impotent to gather,
The tranquil perfidy
Alloys our firmer moments
With that severest gold
Convenient to the longing
But otherwise withheld.
Per quei vecchi Terreni della memoria,
Il vagare in solitudine
È una divina intemperanza
Che un uomo prudente eviterebbe.
Dei liquori posti in vendita
È facile guardarsi
Ma gli statuti non s’immischiano
Con la taverna interiore.
Perniciosa come il tramonto
Che permette d’inseguire
Ma impotente a raccogliere,
La tranquilla perfidia
Adultera i nostri momenti più saldi
Con quell’oro severissimo
Concesso al desiderio
Ma altrimenti negato.
“Yet a little while I am with you, and again a little while and I am not with you,” because you go to your mother! … But the virtue of the text consists in this, my dear, that “if I go, I come again, and ye shall be with me where I am”; that is to say, that if you come in November, you shall be mine, and I shall be thine, and so on, vice versa, until ad infinitum, which isn’t a great way off. While I think of it, my dear friend, and we are upon these subjects, allow me to remark that you have the funniest manner of popping into town, and the most lamentable manner of popping out again, of any one I know. It really becomes to me a matter of serious moment, this propensity of yours concerning your female friends—the “morning cloud and the early dew” are not more evanescent.
I think it was Tuesday evening that we were so amused by the oratorical feats of three or four young gentlemen. I remember I sat by you and took great satisfaction in such seat and society—I remember further our mutual good-nights, our promises to meet again, to tell each other tales of our own heart and life, to seek and find each other after so long a time of distant separation. I can hardly realize that these are recollections, that our happy to-day joins the great band of yesterdays and marches on to the dead—too quickly flown, my bird, for me to satisfy me that you did sit and sing beneath my chamber window! I only went out once after the time I saw you—the morning of Mr. Beecher I looked for you in vain. I discovered your Palmer cousins, but if you indeed were there, it must have been in a form to my gross sense impalpable. I was disappointed. I had been hoping much a little visit from you; when will the hour be that we shall sit together and talk of what we were and what we are and may be—with the shutters closed, dear A., and the balmiest little breeze stealing in at the window? I love those little fancies, yet I would love them more were they not quite so fanciful as they have seemed to be. I have fancied so many times, and so many times gone home to find it was only fancy, that I am half afraid to hope for what I long for. It would seem, my dear A., that out of all the moments crowding this little world, a few might be vouchsafed to spend with those we love—a separated hour, an hour more pure and true than ordinary hours, when we could pause a moment, before we journey on. We had a pleasant time talking the other morning—had I known it was all my portion, mayhap I’d improved it more, but it never’ll come back again to try, whether or no. Don’t you think sometimes these brief, imperfect meetings have a tale to tell—perhaps but for the sorrow which accompanies them we should not be reminded of brevity and change, and should build the dwelling earthward whose site is in the skies—perhaps the treasure here would be too dear a treasure couldn’t “the moth corrupt, and the thief break through and steal”; and this makes me think how I found a little moth in my stores the other day, a very subtle moth that had, in ways and manners to me and mine unknown—contrived to hide itself in a favorite worsted basket—how long my little treasure-house had furnished an arena for its destroying labors it is not mine to tell; it had an errand there—I trust it fulfilled its mission; it taught me, dear A., to have no treasure here, or rather it tried to tell me in its little mothy way of another enduring treasure the robber cannot steal, nor time waste away. How many a lesson learned from lips of such tiny teachers—don’t it make you think of the Bible, “not many mighty, nor wise”?
You met our dear Sarah T. after I saw you here. Her sweet face is the same as in those happy school-days—and in vain I search for wrinkles brought on by many cares; we all love Sarah dearly, and shall try to do all in our power to make her visit happy. Isn’t it very remarkable that in so many years Sarah has changed so little—not that she has stood still, but has made such peaceful progress—her thoughts, though they are older, have all the charm of youth—have not yet lost their freshness, their innocence and peace; she seems so pure in heart, so sunny and serene, like some sweet lark or robin, ever soaring and singing. I have not seen her much—I want to see her more—she speaks often of you, and with a warm affection. I hope no change or time shall blight those loves of ours, I would bear them all in my arms to my home in the glorious heaven and say, “Here am I, my Father, and those whom thou hast given me.” If the life which is to come is better than dwelling here, and angels are there and our friends are glorified and are singing there and praising there, need we fear to go when spirits beyond wait for us? I was meaning to see you more and talk about such things with you—I want to know your views and your eternal feelings—how things beyond are to you—oh, there is much to speak of in meeting one you love, and it always seems to me that I might have spoken more, and I almost always think that what we found to say might have been left unspoken.
Shall it always be so, A.? Is there no longer day given for our communion with the spirits of our love? Writing is brief and Seeting—conversation will come again, yet if it will, it hastes and must be on its way. Earth is short, but Paradise is long—there must be many moments in an eternal day; then sometime we shall tarry while time and tide roll on, and till then vale.
DEAR EMILY,—I said when the barber came I would save you a little look, and fulfilling my promise, I send you one to-day. I shall never give you anything again that will be half so full of sunshine as this wee lock of hair, but I wish no hue more sombre might ever fall to you.
All your gifts should be rainbows if I owned half the shine, and but a bit of sea to furnish raindrops for one. Dear Emily, this is all—it will serve to make you remember me when locks are crisp and gray, and the quiet cap, and the spectacles, and “John Anderson my Jo” are all that is left of you.
I must have one of yours. Please spare me a little lock sometime when you have your scissors and there is one to spare.
While the family lived for many years in the old mansion built by Emily Dickinson’s grandfather, the Hon. Samuel Fowler Dickinson, they had moved away from it about 1840; and the following letter describes their return after fi f teen years to their early home, where Emily was born, and where she died:—
Your voice is sweet, dear Mrs. Holland—I wish I heard it oftener.
One of the mortal musics Jupiter denies, and when indeed its gentle measures fall upon my ear, I stop the birds to listen. Perhaps you think I have no bird, and this is rhetoric—pray, Mr. Whately, what is that upon the cherry-tree? Church is done, and the winds blow, and Vinnie is in that pallid land the simple call “sleep.” They will be wiser by and by, we shall all be wiser! While I sit in the snows, the summer day on which you came and the bees and the south wind, seem fabulous as Heaven seems to a sinful world—and I keep remembering it till it assumes a spectral air, and nods and winks, at me, and then all of you turn to phantoms and vanish slow away. We cannot talk and laugh more, in the parlor where we met, but we learned to love for aye, there, so it is just as well.
We shall sit in a parlor “not made with hands” unless we are very careful!
I cannot tell you how we moved. I had rather not remember. I believe my “effects” were brought in a bandbox, and the “deathless me,” on foot, not many moments after. I took at the time a memorandum of my several senses, and also of my hat and coat, and my best shoes—but it was lost in the mêlée, and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.
Such wits as I reserved, are so badly shattered that repair is useless—and still I can’t help laughing at my own catastrophe. I supposed we were going to make a “transit,” as heavenly bodies did—but we came budget by budget, as our fellows do, till we fulfilled the pantomime contained in the word “moved.” It is a kind of gone-to-Kansas feeling, and if I sat in a long wagon, with my family tied behind, I should suppose without doubt I was a party of emigrants!
They say that “home is where the heart is.” I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.
But, my dear Mrs. Holland, I have another story, and lay my laughter all away, so that I can sigh. Mother has been an invalid since we came home, and Vinnie and I “regulated,” and Vinnie and I “got settled,” and still we keep our father’s house, and mother lies upon the lounge, or sits in her easy-chair. I don’t know what her sickness is, for I am but a simple child, and frightened at myself. I often wish I was a grass, or a toddling daisy, whom all these problems of the dust might not terrify—and should my own machinery get slightly out of gear, please, kind ladies and gentlemen, some one stop the wheel,—for I know that with belts and bands of gold, I shall whizz triumphant on the new stream! Love for you—love for Dr. Holland—thanks for his exquisite hymn—tears for your sister in sable, and kisses for Minnie and the bairns.
DEAR MRS. BOWLES,—YOU send sweet messages. Remembrance is more sweet than robins in May orchards.
I love to trust that round bright fires, some, braver than I, take my pilgrim name. How are papa, mamma, and the little people? …
It storms in Amherst five days—it snows, and then it rains, and then soft fogs like veils hang on all the houses, and then the days turn topaz, like a lady’s pin.
Thank you for bright bouquet, and afterwards verbena. I made a plant of a little bough of yellow heliotrope which the bouquet bore me, and call it Mary Bowles. It is many days since the summer day when you came with Mr. Bowles, and before another summer day it will be many days. My garden is a little knoll with faces under it, and only the pines sing tunes, now the birds are absent. I cannot walk to the distant friends on nights piercing as these, so I put both hands on the window-pane, and try to think how birds fly, and imitate, and fail, like Mr. “Rasselas.” I could make a balloon of a dandelion, but the fields are gone, and only “Professor Lowe” remains to weep with me. If I built my house I should like to call you. I talk of all these things with Carlo, and his eyes grow meaning, and his shaggy feet keep a slower pace. Are you safe to-night? I hope you may be glad. I ask God on my knee to send you much prosperity, few winter days, and long suns. I have a childish hope to gather all I love together and sit down beside and smile… .
Will you come to Amherst? The streets are very cold now, but we will make you warm. But if you never came, perhaps you could write a letter, saying how much you would like to, if it were “God’s will.” I give good-night, and daily love to you and Mr. Bowles.
I should like to thank dear Mrs. Bowles for the little book, except my cheek is red with shame because I write so often. Even the “lilies of the field” have their dignities.
Why did you bind it in green and gold? The immortal colors. I take it for an emblem. I never read before what Mr. Parker wrote.
I heard that he was “poison.” Then I like poison very well. Austin stayed from service yesterday afternoon, and I … found him reading my Christmas gift… . I wish the “faith of the fathers” didn’t wear brogans, and carry blue umbrellas. I give you all “New Year!” I think you kept gay Christmas, from the friend’s account, and can only sigh with one not present at “John Gilpin,” “and when he next doth ride a race,” etc. You picked your berries from my holly. Grasping Mrs. Bowles!
To-day is very cold, yet have I much bouquet upon the window-pane of moss and fern. I call them saints’ flowers, because they do not romp as other flowers do, but stand so still and white.
The snow is very tall, … which makes the trees so low that they tumble my hair, when I cross the bridge.
I think there will be no spring this year, the flowers are gone so far. Let us have spring in our heart, and never mind the orchises! … Please have my love, mother’s, and Vinnie’s. Carlo sends a brown kiss, and pussy a gray and white one, to each of the children.
Please, now I write so often, make lamplighter of me, then I shall not have lived in vain.
Dear Mrs. Bowles, dear Mr. Bowles, dear Sally—Sam and Mamie, now all shut your eyes, while I do benediction!
FRIEND, SIR,—I did not see you. I am very sorry. Shall I keep the wine till you come again, or send it in by Dick? It is now behind the door in the library, also an unclaimed flower. I did not know you were going so soon. Oh! my tardy feet.
Will you not come again?
Friends are gems, infrequent. Potosi is a care, sir. I guard it reverently, for I could not afford to be poor now, after affluence. I hope the hearts in Springfield are not so heavy as they were. God bless the hearts in Springfield.
I am happy you have a horse. I hope you will get stalwart, and come and see us many years.
I have but two acquaintance, the “quick and the dead” —and would like more.
I write you frequently, and am much ashamed. My voice is not quite loud enough to cross so many fields, which will, if you please, apologize for my pencil.
Will you take my love to Mrs. Bowles, whom I remember every day?
After Mr. Bowles had sailed for Europe, Emily sent this quaintly consoling note to Springfield.
Before he comes We weigh the time, ‘Tis heavy, and ‘tis light. When he departs An emptiness Is the superior freight.
We part with the river at the flood through a timid custom, though with the same waters we have often played.
DEAR SISTER,—Brother has visited, and the night is falling, so I must close with a little hymn.
I had hoped to express more. Love more I never can, sweet D——or yourself.
This was in the white of the year, That was in the green. Drifts were as difficult then to think, As daisies now to be seen. Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect’s half, Sometimes almost more.
Of this letter her cousin writes, “All this trouble has become only a myth now; it must have been some illness, or other forgotten calamity.”
DEAR FRIEND,—Brabantio’s gift was not more fair than yours, though I trust without his pathetic inscription, “Which but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.”
Of Poe, I know too little to think—Hawthorne appalls —entices.
Mrs. Jackson soars to your estimate lawfully as a bird, but of Howells and James, one hesitates. Your relentless music dooms as it redeems.
Remorse for the brevity of a book is a rare emotion, though fair as Lowell’s “sweet despair” in the “slipper hymn.”
One thing of it we borrow And promise to return, The booty and the sorrow Its sweetness to have known. One thing of it we covet— The power to forget, The anguish of the avarice Defrays the dross of it.
Had I tried before reading your gift to thank you, it had perhaps been possible, but I waited, and now it disables my lips.
Magic, as it electrifies, also makes decrepit. Thank you for thinking of me.
DEAR FRIEND,—My mother and sister hoped to see you, and I, to have heard the voice in the house that recalls the strange music of your father’s. A little bin of blossoms I designed for your breakfast also went astray.
I hope you are in strength, and that the passengers of peace exalt, not rend, your memory. Heaven may give them rank, it could not give them grandeur, for that they carried with themselves.
This is the only letter I have found, written since early girlhood, in which Emily Dickinson signed her name in this way.
About 1882 she wrote of the elder Mr. Bowles to another friend, “I dreamed Saturday night of precious Mr. Bowles. One glance of his would light a world.” Upon learning of his son’s engagement, Emily sent her unique congratulation: —
DEAR FRIEND,—I have been very ill since early October, and unable to thank you for the sacred kindness, but treasured it each day, and hasten with my first steps, and my fullest gratitude… . I never can thank you as I feel. That would be impossible. The effort ends in tears. You seem, by some deep accident, to be the only tie between the Heaven that evanesced, and the Heaven that stays. I hope the winged days that bear you to your brother are not too destitute of song, and wish that we might speak with you of him and of yourself, and of the third member of that sundered trio. Perhaps another spring would call you to Northampton, and memory might invite you here… .
With a deep New Year,
The final letter to Mr. Clark was written. a year later, and will be found in the last chapter.
Vinnie says your martyrs were fond of flowers.
Would these profane their vase?
EMILY
To the Same
Upon a subsequent anniversary
My DEAR MRS. READ,—We have often thought of you to-day, and almost spoken with you, but thought you might like to be alone—if one can be alone with so thronged a Heaven.
E. DICKINSON
DEAR FRIENDS,—I hope no bolder lover brought you the first pond lilies. The water is deeper than the land. The swimmer never stagnates.
I shall bring you a handful of lotus next, but do not tell the Nile.
He is a jealous brook.
DEAR FRIEND,—The gray afternoon—the sweet knock, and the ebbing voice of the boys are a pictorial memory; and then the little bins and the purple kernels—‘twas like the larder of a doll.
To the inditing heart we wish no sigh had come.
Sweet pirate of the heart, Not pirate of the sea, What wrecketh thee? Some spice’s mutiny— Some attar’s perfidy? Confide in me.
DEAR FRIEND,—I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
How can we thank each other when omnipotent?
You, who endear our mortal Christmas, will perhaps assure us.
DEAR FRIEND,—The heavenly flowers were brought to my room.
I had lain awake with the gale and overslept this morning.
That you may wake in Eden, as you enabled me to do, is my happy wish.
It was the unanimous opinion of the household that Aunt Katie never wrote so lovely a letter, and that it should be immediately replied to by each member of the family, from the geraniums down to the pussies, but unforeseen malignities prevented. Vinnie lost her sultans too—it was “Guiteau” year—Presidents and Sultans were alike doomed.
One might possibly come up, having sown itself—if it should, you shall share—it is an Eastern creature, and does not like this soil. I think its first exuberance was purely accidental. Last was a fatal season. An “envious worm” attacked them; then in early autumn we had midwinter frost. “When God is with us, who shall be against us,” but when He is against us, other allies are useless.
We were much amused at your “gardener.” You portrayed his treason so wittily it was more effective than loyalty. He. knew that flowers had no tongues.
We trust you are safe this Norwegian weather, and. “desire your prayers” for another snow-storm, just over our heads, the snows already repealing the fences.
With love for your health, and the promise of sultans, and viziers too, if the monarchs come,
DEAR FRIEND,—Are you living and well, and your father in peace, and the home in——Street without effacing change? I received, your very kind message, I think in November, since which I have been very ill, and begin to roam in my room a little, an hour at a time.
Do you, as time steals on, know anything of the W——whom Mr.——so loved, and of whom he said with a smile, “Should he find a gold watch in the street he would not pick it up, so unsullied was he”? …
My sister gives her faithful remembrance to yourself and your father, the brother so cherished never once forgot.
You will recall the flower sacred to your brother.
No sloth has memory.