Sic transit gloria mundi
”How doth the busy bee”
Dum vivamus vivamus
I stay mine enemy! —
Oh veni vidi vici!
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh “memento mori”
When I am far from thee
Hurrah for Peter Parley
Hurrrah for Daniel Boone
Three cheers sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon —
Peter put up the sunshine!
Pattie arrange the stars
Tell Luna, tea is waiting
And call your brother Mars —
Put down the apple Adam
And come away with me
So shal’t thou have a pippin
From off my Father’s tree!
I climb the “Hill of Science”
I “view the Landscape o’er”
Such transcendental prospect
I ne’er beheld before! —
Unto the Legislature
4
My country bids me go,
I’ll take my india rubbers
In case the wind should blow.
During my education
It was announced to me
That gravitation stumbling
Fell from an apple tree —
The Earth opon it’s axis
Was once supposed to turn
By way of a gymnastic
In honor to the sun —
It was the brave Columbus
A sailing o’er the tide
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside
Mortality is fatal
Gentility is fine
Rascality, heroic
Insolvency, sublime
Our Fathers being weary
Laid down on Bunker Hill
And though full many a morn’g
Yet they are sleeping still
The trumpet sir, shall wake them
In streams I see them rise
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!
A coward will remain, Sir,
5
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat and run.
Good bye Sir, I am going
My country calleth me
Allow me Sir, at parting
To wipe my weeping e’e
In token of our friendship
Accept this “Bonnie Doon”
And when the hand that pluck’d it
Hath passed beyond the moon
The memory of my ashes
Will consolation be
Then farewell Tuscarora
And farewell Sir, to thee.
Sic transit gloria mundi
”Come fa l’ape operosa”
Dum vivamus vivamus
Io fermo il mio nemico! —
Oh veni vidi vici!
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
E oh “memento mori”
Quando sarò lontana da te
Urrà per Peter Parley
Urrrà per Daniel Boone
Tre evviva, signore, per il gentiluomo
Che per primo osservò la luna —
Peter metti su il sole!
Pattie disponi le stelle
Dì a Luna, il tè è pronto
E chiama tuo fratello Marte —
Posa la mela Adamo
E vieni via con me
Così avrai una mela ranetta
Dall’albero di mio Padre!
Salgo la “Collina della Scienza"
"Contemplo tutto il Paesaggio”
Tale trascendentale prospetto
Mai vidi prima d’ora! —
Alla Legislatura
4
La mia patria m’invita ad andare,
Prenderò le mie soprascarpe di gomma
In caso soffiasse il vento.
Durante la mia educazione
Mi fu annunciato
Che la gravitazione inciampando
Cadde da un albero di mele —
La Terra sul proprio asse
Si supponeva un tempo girasse
A mo’ di ginnastica
In onore del sole —
Fu il prode Colombo
Navigando sulla marea
Che notificò alle nazioni
Dove avrei risieduto
La Mortalità è fatale
La signorilità è fine
La bricconeria, eroica
L’insolvenza, sublime
I nostri Padri essendo stanchi
Si coricarono su Bunker Hill
E benché molti e molti mattini
Pure dormono ancora
La tromba, signore, li desterà
A torrenti li vedo sorgere
Ciascuno con un solenne moschetto
Marciando verso i cieli!
Un codardo resterà, Signore,
5
Finché la battaglia è finita;
Ma un eroe immortale
Prenderà il cappello e correrà.
Addio Signore, me ne vado
La mia patria mi chiama
Concedetemi Signore, nel congedo
Di asciugarmi l’occhio in pianto
In pegno della nostra amicizia
Accettate questo “Bonnie Doon”
E quando la mano che lo colse
Sarà passata oltre la luna
La memoria delle mie ceneri
Sarà consolazione
Allora addio Tuscarora
E addio Signore, a te.
The Gentian weaves her fringes —
The Maple’s loom is red —
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness —
An hour to prepare,
And one below this morning
Is where the angels are —
It was a short procession,
The Bobolink was there —
An aged Bee addressed us —
And then we knelt in prayer —
We trust that she was willing —
We ask that we may be.
Summer — Sister — Seraph!
Let us go with thee!
In the name of the Bee —
And of the Butterfly —
And of the Breeze — Amen!
La Genziana tesse le sue frange —
Il telaio dell’Acero è rosso —
I miei fiori in partenza
Evitano la parata.
Una breve, ma paziente malattia —
Un’ora per prepararsi,
E una quaggiù stamattina
È dove stanno gli angeli —
Fu una corta processione,
Il Bobolink c’era —
Un’Ape attempata ci parlò —
E poi ci inginocchiammo in preghiera —
Confidiamo che lei fosse pronta —
Chiediamo di poterlo essere noi.
Estate — Sorella — Serafino!
Lascia che veniamo con te!
Nel nome dell’Ape —
E della Farfalla —
E della Brezza — Amen!
When Roses cease to bloom, Sir,
And Violets are done —
When Bumblebees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the Sun —
The hand that paused to gather
Upon this Summer’s day
Will idle lie — in Auburn —
Then take my flowers — pray!
Quando le Rose cesseranno di fiorire, Signore,
E le Violette saranno finite —
Quando i Bombi in volo solenne
Saranno passati oltre il Sun —
La mano che indugiò a cogliere
In questo giorno d’Summer
Giacerà oziosa — in Auburn —
Allora prendi i miei fiori — ti prego!
I often passed the village
When going home from school —
And wondered what they did there —
And why it was so still —
I did not know the year then —
In which my call would come —
Earlier, by the Dial,
Than the rest have gone.
It’s stiller than the sundown.
It’s cooler than the dawn —
The Daisies dare to come here —
And birds can flutter down —
So when you are tired —
Or perplexed — or cold —
Trust the loving promise
Underneath the mould,
Cry “it’s I,” “take Dollie,“
And I will enfold!
Passavo spesso il villaggio
Tornando a casa da scuola —
E mi chiedevo cosa vi facessero —
E perché fosse così quieto —
Non sapevo allora l’anno —
In cui sarebbe giunta la mia chiamata —
Più presto, sulla Meridiana,
Di quando gli altri sono andati.
È più quieto del tramonto.
È più fresco dell’alba —
Le Margherite osano venire qui —
E gli uccelli possono scendere a volo —
Così quando sarai stanco —
O smarrito — o freddo —
Fidati della promessa amorosa
Sotto la zolla,
Grida “sono io,” “prendi Dollie,“
E io ti avvolgerò!
If I should die,
And you should live —
And time should gurgle on —
And morn should beam —
And noon should burn —
As it has usual done —
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go —
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie —
That Commerce will continue —
And Trades as briskly fly —
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene —
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
Se io dovessi morire,
E tu dovessi vivere —
E il tempo gorgogliasse avanti —
E il mattino splendesse —
E il mezzogiorno ardesse —
Come ha sempre fatto —
Se gli Uccelli costruissero così presto
E le Api andassero indaffarate —
Si potrebbe partire a scelta
Dall’impresa di quaggiù!
È dolce sapere che i titoli terranno
Quando giaceremo con le Margherite —
Che il Commercio continuerà —
E i Traffici voleranno svelti —
Rende la partenza tranquilla
E mantiene serena l’anima —
Che signori così brillanti
Conducano la piacevole scena!
Low at my problem bending,
Another problem comes —
Larger than mine — Serener —
Involving statelier sums.
I check my busy pencil,
My figures file away.
Wherefore, my baffled fingers
Thy perplexity?
China sul mio problema,
Un altro problema giunge —
Più vasto del mio — Più Sereno —
Che implica somme più solenni.
Fermo la mia matita operosa,
Le mie cifre sfilano via.
Perché mai, mie dita sconcertate
La Tua perplessità?
She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turk
Upon a Couch of flowers.
Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece —
Her countenance as spray.
Morì giocando,
Sgambettò via
Il suo affitto d’ore screziate,
Poi affondò gaia come un Turco
Su un Giaciglio di fiori.
Il suo spettro passeggiò lieve sulla collina
Ieri, e Oggi,
Le sue vesti come il vello d’argento —
Il suo volto come spuma.
One dignity delays for all,
One mitred afternoon.
None can avoid this purple,
None evade this crown.
Coach it insures, and footmen,
Chamber and state and throng ;
Bells, also, in the village,
As we ride grand along.
What dignified attendants,
What service when we pause !
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise !
How pomp surpassing ermine,
When simple you and I
Present our meek escutcheon,
And claim the rank to die !
Una dignità attende tutti,
Un pomeriggio mitrato.
Nessuno può evitare questa porpora,
Nessuno eludere questa corona.
Carrozza assicura, e valletti,
Camera e pompa e folla ;
Campane, anche, nel villaggio,
Mentre passiamo in grande.
Che dignitosi accompagnatori,
Che servizio quando sostiamo !
Con che lealtà al congedo
Levano i loro cento cappelli !
Che pompa che supera l’ermellino,
Quando semplici tu ed io
Presentiamo il nostro umile stemma,
E reclamiamo il rango di morire !
What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth —
No brimming Tankards flow —
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
Che Inn è questa
dove per la notte
giunge un Viaggiatore singolare?
Chi è l’Oste?
Dove le ancelle?
Guarda, che stanze curiose!
Nessun fuoco rossastro sul focolare —
Nessun Boccale colmo trabocca —
Negromante! Oste!
Chi sono costoro qui sotto?
Some, too fragile for winter winds
The thoughtful grave encloses —
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.
Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look,
And sportsman is not bold.
This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold,
Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father —
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
Alcuni, troppo fragili per i venti d’inverno
La tomba pensosa racchiude —
Rimboccandoli con tenerezza dal gelo
Prima che i loro piedi sian freddi.
Mai i tesori del suo nido
La cauta tomba espone,
Costruendo dove lo scolaro non osa guardare,
E il cacciatore non è audace.
Questo rifugio hanno tutti i bambini
Presto invecchiati, e spesso freddi,
Passero, inosservato dal Padre —
Agnelli per cui il tempo non ebbe ovile.
Dust is the only Secret —
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his “native town.”
Nobody know “his Father” —
Never was a Boy —
Hadn’t any playmates,
Or “Early history” —
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest —
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
La Polvere è il solo Segreto —
La Morte, il solo
Di cui non puoi sapere tutto
Nella sua “città natale.”
Nessuno conosce “suo Padre” —
Non fu mai un Ragazzo —
Non ebbe compagni di gioco,
Né “Prima storia” —
Industriosa! Laconica!
Puntuale! Pacata!
Audace come un Brigante!
Più quieta d’una Flotta!
Costruisce, come un Uccello, anche!
Cristo depreda il Nido —
Pettirosso dopo Pettirosso
Trafugato al Riposo!
Wait till the Majesty of Death
Invests so mean a brow!
Almost a powdered Footman
Might dare to touch it now!
Wait till in Everlasting Robes
That Democrat is dressed,
Then prate about “Preferment” —
And “Station,” and the rest!
Around this quiet Courtier
Obsequious Angels wait!
Full royal is his Retinue!
Full purple is his state!
A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat
To such a Modest Clay
Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords”
Receives unblushingly!
Aspetta che la Maestà della Morte
Investa una fronte così umile!
Quasi un incipriato Lacchè
Oserebbe toccarla ora!
Aspetta che in Vesti Eterne
Quel Democratico sia abbigliato,
Poi ciancia di “Promozioni” —
E di “Rango,” e del resto!
Attorno a questo quieto Cortigiano
Ossequiosi Angeli attendono!
Ben regale è il suo Seguito!
Ben purpureo è il suo stato!
Un Lord, oserebbe levare il Cappello
A così Modesta Creta
Poiché quel Mio Signore, “il Signore dei Signori”
Riceve senza arrossire!
How many times these low feet staggered —
Only the soldered mouth can tell —
Try — can you stir the awful rivet —
Try — can you lift the hasps of steel!
Stroke the cool forehead — hot so often —
Lift — if you care — the listless hair —
Handle the adamantine fingers
Never a thimble — more — shall wear —
Buzz the dull flies — on the chamber window —
Brave — shines the sun through the freckled pane —
Fearless — the cobweb swings from the ceiling —
Indolent Housewife — in Daisies — lain!
Quante volte questi umili piedi vacillarono —
Solo la bocca saldata può dirlo —
Prova — sai smuovere il terribile rivetto —
Prova — sai sollevare i fermagli d’acciaio!
Accarezza la fresca fronte — così spesso ardente —
Solleva — se vuoi — i capelli inerti —
Maneggia le adamantine dita
Che mai più un ditale — porteranno —
Ronzano le mosche spente — sulla finestra della camera —
Ardito — splende il sole attraverso il vetro lentigginoso —
Impavida — la ragnatela oscilla dal soffitto —
Indolente Massaia — fra le Margherite — distesa!
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers —
Untouched by Morning
And untouched by Noon —
Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection —
Rafter of satin,
And Roof of stone.
Light laughs the breeze
In her Castle above them —
Babbles the Bee in a stolid Ear,
Pipe the Sweet Birds in ignorant cadence —
Ah, what sagacity perished here!
Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.
Al sicuro nelle loro Camere d’Alabastro —
Intoccati dal Mattino
E intoccati dal Mezzogiorno —
Dormono i miti membri della Resurrezione —
Travatura di raso,
E Tetto di pietra.
Lieve ride la brezza
Nel suo Castello sopra di loro —
Ciancia l’Ape in un Orecchio impassibile,
Zufolano i Dolci Uccelli in cadenza ignara —
Ah, quale sagacia perì qui!
Grandiosi vanno gli anni nel crescente sopra di loro;
I mondi scavano i loro archi, e i firmamenti remano,
Cadono i Diademi e i Dogi si arrendono,
Silenziosi come punti su un disco di neve.
Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With “This was last Her fingers did” —
Industrious until —
The Thimble weighed too heavy —
The stitches stopped — by themselves —
And then ‘twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves —
A Book I have — a friend gave —
Whose Pencil — here and there —
Had notched the place that pleased Him —
At Rest — His fingers are —
Now — when I read — I read not —
For interrupting Tears —
Obliterate the Etchings
Too Costly for Repairs.
La Morte rende una Cosa significante
Davanti a cui l’Occhio era corso via
Se una Creatura perita non
Ci pregasse teneramente
Di ponderare piccoli Lavori
A Pastello, o in Lana,
Con “Questo fu l’ultimo delle Sue dita” —
Industriosa finché —
Il Ditale pesò troppo —
I punti si fermarono — da soli —
E allora fu riposto tra la Polvere
Sugli scaffali dell’Armadio —
Un Libro ho — lo diede un amico —
La cui Matita — qua e là —
Aveva segnato il passo che Gli piacque —
In Riposo — sono le Sue dita —
Ora — quando leggo — non leggo —
Perché Lacrime che interrompono
Cancellano le Incisioni
Troppo Costose da Riparare.
The Color of the Grave is Green —
The Outer Grave — I mean —
You would not know it from the Field —
Except it own a Stone —
To help the fond — to find it —
Too infinite asleep
To stop and tell them where it is —
But just a Daisy — deep —
The Color of the Grave is white —
The outer Grave — I mean —
You would not know it from the Drifts —
In Winter — till the Sun —
Has furrowed out the Aisles —
Then — higher than the Land
The little Dwelling Houses rise
Where each — has left a friend —
The Color of the Grave within —
The Duplicate — I mean —
Not all the Snows could make it white —
Not all the Summers — Green —
You’ve seen the Color — maybe —
Upon a Bonnet bound —
When that you met it with before —
The Ferret — cannot find —
Il Colore della Tomba è Verde —
La Tomba Esterna — intendo —
Non la distingueresti dal Campo —
Se non possedesse una Pietra —
Per aiutare i cari — a trovarla —
Troppo infinitamente addormentata
Per fermarsi a dir loro dov’è —
Ma solo una Margherita — profonda —
Il Colore della Tomba è bianco —
La Tomba esterna — intendo —
Non la distingueresti dai Cumuli —
D’Inverno — finché il Sole —
Non ha scavato solchi nelle Navate —
Allora — più alte della Terra
Sorgono le piccole Case-Dimore
Dove ognuno — ha lasciato un amico —
Il Colore della Tomba dentro —
Il Duplicato — intendo —
Non tutte le Nevi potrebbero farlo bianco —
Non tutte le Estati — Verde —
Hai visto quel Colore — forse —
Legato a una Cuffia —
Quando colui su cui prima lo incontravi —
Il Furetto — non sa trovare —
‘Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch,
That nearer, every Day,
Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel
Until the Agony
Toyed coolly with the final inch
Of your delirious Hem —
And you dropt, lost,
When something broke —
And let you from a Dream —
As if a Goblin with a Gauge —
Kept measuring the Hours —
Until you felt your Second
Weigh, helpless, in his Paws —
And not a Sinew — stirred — could help,
And sense was setting numb —
When God — remembered — and the Fiend
Let go, then, Overcome —
As if your Sentence stood — pronounced —
And you were frozen led
From Dungeon’s luxury of Doubt
To Gibbets, and the Dead —
And when the Film had stitched your eyes
A Creature gasped “Reprieve”!
Which Anguish was the utterest — then —
To perish, or to live?
Era come un Maelstrom, con una tacca,
Che più vicino, ogni Giorno,
Stringeva la sua Ruota bollente
Finché l’Agonia
Giocò fredda con l’ultimo lembo
Del tuo Orlo delirante —
E cadesti, perduta,
Quando qualcosa si spezzò —
E ti lasciò uscire da un Sogno —
Come se un Folletto con un Calibro —
Misurasse le Ore —
Finché sentisti il tuo Secondo
Pesare, inerme, nelle sue Zampe —
E non un Nervo — mosso — poteva aiutare,
E il senso si faceva torpido —
Quando Dio — si ricordò — e il Demonio
Lasciò la presa, allora, Vinto —
Come se la tua Sentenza stesse — pronunciata —
E fossi condotta gelata
Dal lusso di Dubbio della Segreta
Alle Forche, e ai Morti —
E quando il Velo ti aveva cucito gli occhi
Una Creatura ansimò “Grazia”!
Quale Angoscia fu la più estrema — allora —
Perire, o vivere?
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed ?
”For beauty,” I replied.
”And I for truth, — the two are one ;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
Morii per la bellezza, ma ero appena
Composta nella tomba,
Quando uno morto per la verità fu adagiato
In una stanza attigua.
Chiese sommesso perché venni meno ?
”Per la bellezza,” risposi.
”E io per la verità, — le due sono una ;
Fratelli siamo,” disse.
E così, come congiunti incontratisi una notte,
Parlammo tra le stanze,
Finché il muschio ci raggiunse le labbra,
E ricoprì i nostri nomi.
Sweet — safe — Houses —
Glad — gay — Houses —
Sealed so stately tight —
Lids of Steel — on Lids of Marble —
Locking Bare feet out —
Brooks of Plush — in Banks of Satin
Not so softly fall
As the laughter — and the whisper —
From their People Pearl —
No Bald Death — affront their Parlors —
No Bold Sickness come
To deface their Stately Treasures —
Anguish — and the Tomb —
Hum by — in Muffled Coaches —
Lest they — wonder Why —
Any — for the Press of Smiling —
Interrupt — to die —
Dolci — sicure — Case —
Liete — gaie — Case —
Sigillate con fasto così serrato —
Coperchi d’Acciaio — su Coperchi di Marmo —
Che sbarrano fuori i piedi Nudi —
Ruscelli di Felpa — in Sponde di Raso
Non cadono così piano
Come la risata — e il sussurro —
Della loro Gente di Perla —
Nessuna Morte Calva — affronti i loro Salotti —
Nessuna Sfrontata Malattia venga
A deturpare i loro Fastosi Tesori —
L’Angoscia — e la Tomba —
Passano ronzando — in Carrozze Attutite —
Perché essi — non si chiedano Perché —
Qualcuno — nella Calca dei Sorrisi —
S’interrompa — per morire —
She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —
She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel’s Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —
To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.
Dispensava le sue graziose parole come Lame —
Come scintillanti brillavano —
E ognuna metteva a nudo un Nervo
O si trastullava con un Osso —
Lei mai pensò — di ferire —
Quello — non è Affare dell’Acciaio —
Una smorfia volgare nella Carne —
Come mal la sopportano le Creature —
Dolere è umano — non educato —
Il Velo sopra l’occhio
Vecchia Usanza della Mortalità —
Solo serrarsi — per Morire.
As far from pity, as complaint —
As cool to speech — as stone —
As numb to Revelation
As if my Trade were Bone —
As far from time — as History —
As near yourself — Today —
As Children, to the Rainbow’s scarf —
Or Sunset’s Yellow play
To eyelids in the Sepulchre —
How dumb the Dancer lies —
While Color’s Revelations break —
And blaze — the Butterflies!
Lontana dalla pietà, come il lamento —
Fredda alla parola — come pietra —
Insensibile alla Rivelazione
Come se il mio Mestiere fosse l’Osso —
Lontana dal tempo — come la Storia —
Vicina a te — come l’Oggi —
Come i Bambini, alla sciarpa dell’Arcobaleno —
O al Giallo gioco del Tramonto
Per palpebre nel Sepolcro —
Come muta giace la Danzatrice —
Mentre irrompono le Rivelazioni del Colore —
E avvampano — le Farfalle!
The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art — To save —
Through Skill obtained in Themselves —
The Science of the Grave
No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution — in Himself —
That Man — be qualified
To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new —
Mistake Defeat for Death — Each time —
Till acclimated — to —
La Provincia dei Salvati
Dovrebbe essere l’Arte — Di salvare —
Per Perizia acquisita in Se stessi —
La Scienza della Tomba
Nessun Uomo può comprendere
Se non Colui che ha patito
La Dissoluzione — in Se stesso —
Quell’Uomo — sia qualificato
A qualificare la Disperazione
Per Quelli che, nuovi al fallire —
Scambiano la Sconfitta per Morte — Ogni volta —
Finché acclimatati — a —
I’ve seen a dying eye
Run round and round a room
In search of something, as it seemed,
Then cloudier become ;
And then, obscure with fog,
And then be soldered down,
Without disclosing what it be,
‘T were blessed to have seen.
Ho visto un occhio morente
Correre e ricorrere per una stanza
In cerca di qualcosa, così pareva,
Poi farsi più annuvolato ;
E poi, oscuro di nebbia,
E poi venire saldato,
Senza svelare che cosa fosse,
Che benedetto sarebbe stato vedere.
It knew no Medicine —
It was not Sickness — then —
Nor any need of Surgery —
And therefore — ‘twas not Pain —
It moved away the Cheeks —
A Dimple at a time —
And left the Profile — plainer —
And in the place of Bloom
It left the little Tint
That never had a Name —
You’ve seen it on a Cast’s face —
Was Paradise — to blame —
If momently ajar —
Temerity — drew near —
And sickened — ever afterward
For Somewhat that it saw?
Non conosceva Medicina —
Non era Malattia — allora —
Né alcun bisogno di Chirurgia —
E dunque — non era Dolore —
Spostò via le Guance —
Una Fossetta per volta —
E lasciò il Profilo — più piano —
E in luogo della Fioritura
Lasciò la piccola Tinta
Che mai ebbe un Nome —
L’avete vista sul volto d’un Calco —
Fu il Paradiso — da incolpare —
Se per un attimo socchiuso —
La Temerità — s’accostò —
E si ammalò — per sempre poi
Per un Qualcosa che vide?
A Toad, can die of Light —
Death is the Common Right
Of Toads and Men —
Of Earl and Midge
The privilege —
Why swagger, then?
The Gnat’s supremacy is large as Thine —
Life — is a different Thing —
So measure Wine —
Naked of Flask — Naked of Cask —
Bare Rhine —
Which Ruby’s mine?
Un Rospo, può morire di Luce —
La Morte è il Diritto Comune
Di Rospi e Uomini —
Di Conte e Moscerino
Il privilegio —
Perché vantarsi, allora?
La supremazia della Zanzara è vasta quanto la Tua —
La Vita — è Cosa diversa —
Così misura il Vino —
Nudo di Fiasco — Nudo di Botte —
Puro Reno —
Quale Rubino è mio?
We talked as Girls do —
Fond, and late —
We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave —
Of ours, none affair —
We handled Destinies, as cool —
As we — Disposers — be —
And God, a Quiet Party
To our Authority —
But fondest, dwelt upon Ourself
As we eventual — be —
When Girls to Women, softly raised
We — occupy — Degree —
We parted with a contract
To cherish, and to write
But Heaven made both, impossible
Before another night.
Parlavamo come fanno le Ragazze —
Affettuose, e fino a tardi —
Speculavamo serene, su ogni argomento, tranne la Tomba —
Che di noi, non era affare —
Maneggiavamo Destini, fredde —
Come noi — Dispensatrici — fossimo —
E Dio, un Convitato Quieto
Della nostra Autorità —
Ma con più affetto, indugiavamo su Noi stesse
Quali un giorno — saremmo —
Quando da Ragazze a Donne, dolcemente innalzate
Noi — occuperemmo — un Grado —
Ci separammo con un patto
Di volerci care, e di scriverci
Ma il Cielo rese entrambi, impossibili
Prima di un’altra notte.
What care the Dead, for Chanticleer —
What care the Dead for Day?
‘Tis late your Sunrise vex their face —
And Purple Ribaldry — of Morning
Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool —
What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate —
And knew One Bird a Tune —
Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be —
This One — beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be —
What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze —
June Noon — as January Night —
As soon the South — her Breeze
Of Sycamore — or Cinnamon —
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm —
Give Spices — unto Men —
Che importa ai Morti, di Chanticleer —
Che importa ai Morti del Giorno?
Tardi la vostra Aurora ne turba il volto —
E la Purpurea Baldoria — del Mattino
Si riversa vuota su di loro
Come sulla Fila di Muro
Che il Muratore edificò, ieri,
E altrettanto fredda —
Che importa ai Morti dell’Estate?
Il Solstizio non ebbe Sole
Che struggesse la Neve davanti alla loro Porta —
E sapesse Un solo Uccello una Melodia —
Da far vibrare il loro Orecchio Mortasato
Fra tutti gli Uccelli che esistono —
Questo — diletto al Genere Umano
D’ora innanzi sia caro —
Che importa ai Morti dell’Inverno?
Loro stessi gelano altrettanto lievi —
Mezzogiorno di giugno — come Notte di gennaio —
Tanto presto il Sud — la sua Brezza
Di Sicomoro — o di Cannella —
Deporrebbe in una Pietra
E metterebbe una Pietra a tenerla Calda —
Darebbe Spezie — agli Uomini —
—
Three times — we parted — Breath — and I —
Three times — He would not go —
But strove to stir the lifeless Fan
The Waters — strove to stay.
Three Times — the Billows tossed me up —
Then caught me — like a Ball —
Then made Blue faces in my face —
And pushed away a sail
That crawled Leagues off — I liked to see —
For thinking — while I die —
How pleasant to behold a Thing
Where Human faces — be —
The Waves grew sleepy — Breath — did not —
The Winds — like Children — lulled —
Then Sunrise kissed my Chrysalis —
And I stood up — and lived —
—
Tre volte — ci separammo — il Respiro — ed io —
Tre volte — Lui non volle andare —
Ma tentava di muovere l’esanime Ventaglio
Che le Acque — tentavano d’arrestare.
Tre Volte — i Flutti mi gettarono in alto —
Poi mi ripresero — come una Palla —
Poi mi fecero facce Blu in faccia —
E spinsero via una vela
Che strisciò Leghe lontano — Mi piaceva vederla —
Pensando — mentre muoio —
Com’è dolce contemplare una Cosa
Dove volti Umani — siano —
Le Onde si fecero sonnolente — il Respiro — no —
I Venti — come Bimbi — si acquietarono —
Poi l’Alba baciò la mia Crisalide —
E mi levai — e vissi —
You’ll find — it when you try to die —
The Easier to let go —
For recollecting such as went —
You could not spare — you know.
And though their places somewhat filled —
As did their Marble names
With Moss — they never grew so full —
You chose the newer names —
And when this World — sets further back —
As Dying — say it does —
The former love — distincter grows —
And supersedes the fresh —
And Thought of them — so fair invites —
It looks too tawdry Grace
To stay behind — with just the Toys
We bought — to ease their place —
Lo scoprirai — quando cercherai di morire —
tanto più Facile lasciare andare —
ricordando quelli che andarono —
di cui non potevi fare a meno — lo sai.
E benché i loro posti un poco colmati —
come i loro nomi di Marmo
di Muschio — mai si fecero sì pieni —
che tu scegliessi i nomi più nuovi —
E quando questo Mondo — arretra più lontano —
come il Morire — dicono — fa —
l’antico amore — più distinto cresce —
e soppianta il recente —
E il Pensiero di loro — sì dolce invita —
che pare Grazia troppo vile
restare indietro — con i soli Balocchi
che comprammo — per lenire il loro posto —
DEAR —
TO know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.
To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?
What was his furthest mind, of home, of God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
654
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet—and the junction be Eternity?
CARO —
SAPERE solo come soffrì sarebbe caro;
Sapere se qualche occhio umano fosse accanto
A cui potesse affidare lo sguardo vacillante,
Finché non si posò fermo sul Paradiso.
Sapere se fu paziente, in parte contento,
Se moriva come pensava, o diversamente;
Fu un giorno gradevole per morire,
E il sole gli volgeva incontro il viso?
Quale fu il suo estremo pensiero, della casa, di Dio,
O che cosa dissero i lontani
Alla notizia che egli cessò l’umana natura
In un giorno simile?
E desideri, ne ebbe alcuno?
Solo il suo sospiro, accentato,
Mi sarebbe stato leggibile.
E fu fiducioso finché
Il Male non si dileguò nell’eterno bene?
E se parlò, quale nome fu il migliore,
Quale il primo,
Con quale s’interruppe
Nel massimo sopore?
Ebbe paura, o fu tranquillo?
Poteva egli sapere
Quanto cosciente la coscienza possa crescere,
654
Finché l’amore che fu, e l’amore troppo beato per essere,
S’incontrino—e la giunzione sia l’Eternità?
She dwelleth in the Ground —
Where Daffodils — abide —
Her Maker — Her Metropolis —
The Universe — Her Maid —
To fetch Her Grace — and Hue —
And Fairness — and Renown —
The Firmament’s — To Pluck Her —
And fetch Her Thee — be mine —
Ella dimora nella Terra —
Dove le Giunchiglie — stanno —
Il suo Creatore — la Sua Metropoli —
L’Universo — la Sua Ancella —
Per attingere la Sua Grazia — e Tinta —
E Bellezza — e Fama —
Del Firmamento — il Coglierla —
E portarla a Te — sia mio —
The Sun kept setting — setting — still
No Hue of Afternoon —
Upon the Village I perceived
From House to House ‘twas Noon —
The Dusk kept dropping — dropping — still
No Dew upon the Grass —
But only on my Forehead stopped —
And wandered in my Face —
My Feet kept drowsing — drowsing — still
My fingers were awake —
Yet why so little sound — Myself
Unto my Seeming — make?
How well I knew the Light before —
I could see it now —
‘Tis Dying — I am doing — but
I’m not afraid to know —
Il Sole seguitava a tramontare — tramontare — eppure
Nessuna Tinta di Pomeriggio —
Sul Villaggio io scorgevo
Di Casa in Casa era Mezzogiorno —
Il Crepuscolo seguitava a scendere — scendere — eppure
Nessuna Rugiada sull’Erba —
Solo sulla mia Fronte si posava —
E vagava sul mio Viso —
I miei Piedi seguitavano ad assopirsi — assopirsi — eppure
Le mie dita erano deste —
Ma perché così poco suono — Io stessa
Al mio Sembrare — produco?
Come bene conoscevo la Luce un tempo —
Potevo vederla ora —
È Morire — ciò che sto facendo — ma
Non ho paura di saperlo —
The World — feels Dusty
When We stop to Die —
We want the Dew — then —
Honors — taste dry —
Flags — vex a Dying face —
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand —
Cools — like the Rain —
Mine be the Ministry
When thy Thirst comes —
And Hybla Balms —
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch —
Il Mondo — sembra Polveroso
Quando Ci fermiamo a Morire —
Vogliamo la Rugiada — allora —
Gli Onori — sanno di secco —
Le Bandiere — vessano un volto Morente —
Ma il più piccolo Ventaglio
Mosso dalla Mano di un amico —
Rinfresca — come la Pioggia —
Mio sia il Ministero
Quando verrà la tua Sete —
E i Balsami di Ibla —
Rugiade di Tessaglia, a recare —
“I want” — it pleaded — All its life —
I want — was chief it said
When Skill entreated it — the last —
And when so newly dead —
I could not deem it late — to hear
That single — steadfast sigh —
The lips had placed as with a “Please”
Toward Eternity —
“Io voglio” — implorò — Tutta la sua vita —
Io voglio — fu il principale che disse
Quando l’Arte lo supplicò — all’ultimo —
E quando da così poco morto —
Non potei crederlo tardo — udire
Quel singolo — fermo sospiro —
Che le labbra avevano posto come un “Per favore”
Verso l’Eternità —
Bereaved of all, I went abroad —
No less bereaved was I
Upon a New Peninsula —
The Grave preceded me —
Obtained my Lodgings, ere myself —
And when I sought my Bed —
The Grave it was reposed upon
The Pillow for my Head —
I waked to find it first awake —
I rose — It followed me —
I tried to drop it in the Crowd —
To lose it in the Sea —
In Cups of artificial Drowse
To steep its shape away —
The Grave — was finished — but the Spade
Remained in Memory —
Orbata di tutto, andai lontano —
Non meno orbata fui
Sopra una Nuova Penisola —
La Tomba mi precedeva —
Ottenne il mio Alloggio, prima di me —
E quando cercai il mio Letto —
La Tomba era adagiata
Sul Guanciale per il mio Capo —
Mi destai e la trovai già desta —
Mi alzai — Essa mi seguì —
Tentai di perderla tra la Folla —
Di smarrirla nel Mare —
In Coppe di Sopore artificiale
Di macerarne via la forma —
La Tomba — era compiuta — ma la Vanga
Restò nella Memoria —
This quiet Dust was Gentleman and Ladies
And Lads and Girls —
Was laughter and ability and Sighing
And Frocks and Curls.
This Passive Place a Summer’s nimble mansion
Where Bloom and Bees
Exists an Oriental Circuit
Then cease, like these —
Questa quieta Polvere fu Gentiluomini e Dame
E Ragazzi e Fanciulle —
Fu riso e talento e Sospiri
E Vesti e Riccioli.
Questo Luogo Passivo agile dimora dell’Estate
Dove Fioritura e Api
Esiste un Circuito Orientale
Poi cessano, come questi —
When One has given up One’s life
The parting with the rest
Feels easy, as when Day lets go
Entirely the West
The Peaks, that lingered last
Remain in Her regret
As scarcely as the Iodine
Upon the Cataract.
Quando Uno ha ceduto la propria vita
Il distacco dal resto
Pare facile, come quando il Giorno lascia andare
Interamente l’Occidente
Le Vette, che indugiarono ultime
Restano nel Suo rimpianto
Appena quanto lo Iodio
Sulla Cateratta.
There is a finished feeling
Experienced at Graves —
A leisure of the Future —
A Wilderness of Size.
By Death’s bold Exhibition
Preciser what we are
And the Eternal function
Enabled to infer.
C’è un sentimento di compiuto
Che si prova presso le Tombe —
Un agio del Futuro —
Un Deserto di Grandezza.
Per l’ardita Esibizione della Morte
Più preciso ciò che siamo
E l’Eterna funzione
Dato ci è inferire.
This Chasm, Sweet, opon my life
I mention it to you,
When Sunrise through a fissure drop
The Day must follow too.
If we demur, its gaping sides
Disclose as ‘twere a Tomb
Ourself am lying straight wherein
The Favorite of Doom.
When it has just contained a Life
Then, Darling, it will close
And yet so bolder every Day
So turbulent it grows
I’m tempted half to stitch it up
With a remaining Breath
I should not miss in yielding, though
To Him, it would be Death —
And so I bear it big about
My Burial — before
A Life quite ready to depart
Can harass me no more —
Questo Baratro, Dolcezza, sopra la mia vita
Te ne faccio menzione,
Quando l’Aurora per una crepa cala
Anche il Giorno deve seguire.
Se esitiamo, i suoi fianchi spalancati
Si schiudono come fosse una Tomba
Ove io stessa giaccio distesa
La Prediletta del Fato.
Quando avrà contenuto appena una Vita
Allora, Tesoro, si chiuderà
Eppure ogni Giorno più audace
Così turbolento cresce
Sono quasi tentata di ricucirlo
Con un Respiro che rimane
Non mi mancherebbe nel cederlo, eppure
Per Lui, sarebbe Morte —
E così me lo porto grande addosso
Il mio Sepolcro — prima che
Una Vita ben pronta a partire
Possa tormentarmi mai più —
They won’t frown always — some sweet Day
When I forget to tease —
They’ll recollect how cold I looked
And how I just said “Please.”
Then They will hasten to the Door
To call the little Girl
Who cannot thank Them for the Ice
That filled the lisping full.
Non saranno accigliati per sempre — un dolce Giorno
Quando scorderò di tormentare —
Ricorderanno che fredda apparivo
E come dissi solo “Per favore.”
Allora Essi correranno alla Porta
A chiamare la piccola Bimba
Che non può ringraziarLi per il Gelo
Che colmò del tutto il balbettio.
It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone
Enclosed ‘twas not of Rail
A Consciousness its Acre, and
It held a Human Soul.
Entombed by whom, for what offence
If Home or Foreign born —
Had I the curiosity
’Twere not appeased of men
Till Resurrection, I must guess
Denied the small desire
A Rose upon its Ridge to sow
Or take away a Briar.
Era una Tomba, eppur non recava Pietra
Non era cinta di Cancello
Una Coscienza il suo Acro, e
Racchiudeva un’Anima Umana.
Sepolta da chi, per quale colpa
Se nata in Patria o Straniera —
Avessi io la curiosità
Non sarebbe placata dagli uomini
Fino alla Resurrezione, devo supporre
Negato il piccolo desiderio
Di seminare una Rosa sul suo Colmo
O di togliere un Rovo.
Each Second is the last
Perhaps, recalls the Man
Just measuring unconsciousness
The Sea and Spar between.
To fail within a Chance —
How terribler a thing
Than perish from the Chance’s list
Before the Perishing!
Ogni Secondo è l’ultimo
Forse, rammenta l’Uomo
Che appena misura l’incoscienza
Il Mare e il Pennone frammezzo.
Mancare dentro una Possibilità —
Quanto più terribile cosa
Che perire dalla lista della Possibilità
Prima del Perire!
Crisis is a Hair
Toward which the forces creep
Past which forces retrograde
If it come in sleep
To suspend the Breath
Is the most we can
Ignorant is it Life or Death
Nicely balancing.
Let an instant push
Or an Atom press
Or a Circle hesitate
In Circumference
It — may jolt the Hand
That adjusts the Hair
That secures Eternity
From presenting — Here —
Crisi è un Capello
Verso cui le forze strisciano
Oltre cui le forze retrocedono
Se giunge nel sonno
Sospendere il Respiro
È il più che possiamo
Ignari se sia Vita o Morte
Sottilmente in bilico.
Che un istante spinga
O un Atomo prema
O un Cerchio esiti
Nella Circonferenza
Ciò — può scuotere la Mano
Che regola il Capello
Che trattiene l’Eternità
Dal presentarsi — Qui —
Who occupies this House?
A Stranger I must judge
Since No one know His Circumstance —
‘Tis well the name and age
Are writ upon the Door
Or I should fear to pause
Where not so much as Honest Dog
Approach encourages.
It seems a curious Town —
Some Houses very old,
Some — newly raised this Afternoon,
Were I compelled to build
It should not be among
Inhabitants so still
But where the Birds assemble
And Boys were possible.
Before Myself was born
’Twas settled, so they say,
A Territory for the Ghosts —
And Squirrels, formerly.
Until a Pioneer, as
Settlers often do
Liking the quiet of the Place
Attracted more unto —
And from a Settlement
934
A Capital has grown
Distinguished for the gravity
Of every Citizen.
The Owner of this House
A Stranger He must be —
Eternity’s Acquaintances
Are mostly so — to me.
Chi occupa questa Casa?
Un Estraneo devo giudicare
Poiché Nessuno conosce la Sua Circostanza —
È bene che il nome e l’età
Sian scritti sulla Porta
O avrei paura a sostare
Dove nemmeno un Cane Onesto
Incoraggia ad accostarsi.
Pare una Città curiosa —
Alcune Case molto antiche,
Alcune — erette appena questo Pomeriggio,
Fossi costretta a costruire
Non sarebbe fra
Abitanti così quieti
Ma dove i Uccelli si radunano
E i Ragazzi fossero possibili.
Prima che Io stessa nascessi
Fu colonizzata, così dicono,
Un Territorio per gli Spettri —
E gli Scoiattoli, un tempo.
Finché un Pioniere, come
Spesso fanno i Coloni
Amando la quiete del Luogo
Ne attrasse altri —
E da un Insediamento
934
Una Capitale è cresciuta
Distinta per la gravità
Di ogni Cittadino.
Il Padrone di questa Casa
Un Estraneo dev’essere —
Le Conoscenze dell’Eternità
Lo sono per lo più — per me.
TIME —
The Admirations — and Contempts — of time —
Show justest — through an Open Tomb —
The Dying — as it were a Height
Reorganizes Estimate
And what We saw not
We distinguish clear —
And mostly — see not
What We saw before —
‘Tis Compound Vision —
Light — enabling Light —
The Finite — furnished
With the Infinite —
Convex — and Concave Witness —
Back — toward Time —
And forward —
Toward the God of Him —
TEMPO —
Le Ammirazioni — e i Disprezzi — del tempo —
Si mostrano più giusti — attraverso una Tomba Aperta —
Il Morire — quasi fosse un’Altezza
Riorganizza la Stima
E ciò che non vedevamo
Distinguiamo chiaro —
E per lo più — non vediamo
Ciò che vedevamo prima —
È Visione Composta —
Luce — che dischiude Luce —
Il Finito — fornito
Dell’Infinito —
Testimone Convesso — e Concavo —
Indietro — verso il Tempo —
E avanti —
Verso il Dio di Lui —
‘Tis Sunrise — Little Maid — Hast Thou
No Station in the Day?
‘Twas not thy wont, to hinder so —
Retrieve thine industry —
‘Tis Noon — My little Maid —
Alas — and art thou sleeping yet?
The Lily — waiting to be Wed —
The Bee — Hast thou forgot?
My little Maid — ‘Tis Night — Alas
That Night should be to thee
Instead of Morning — Had’st thou broached
Thy little Plan to Die —
Dissuade thee, if I could not, Sweet,
I might have aided — thee —
È l’Alba — Piccola Fanciulla — Non hai Tu
Alcun Posto nel Giorno?
Non era tua usanza, indugiare così —
Riprendi la tua operosità —
È Mezzogiorno — Mia piccola Fanciulla —
Ahimè — e dormi tu ancora?
Il Giglio — in attesa di Nozze —
L’Ape — Hai tu dimenticato?
Mia piccola Fanciulla — È Notte — Ahimè
Che Notte debba esser per te
Invece di Mattino — Avessi tu confidato
Il tuo piccolo Piano di Morire —
Dissuaderti, se non avessi potuto, Dolce,
Avrei potuto aiutare — te —
Too little way the House must lie
From every Human Heart
That holds in undisputed Lease
A white inhabitant —
Too narrow is the Right between —
Too imminent the chance —
Each Consciousness must emigrate
And lose its neighbor once —
A troppo breve via la Casa deve stare
Da ogni Cuore Umano
Che tiene in Affitto incontestato
Un bianco abitante —
Troppo stretto è il Diritto framezzo —
Troppo imminente la sorte —
Ogni Coscienza deve emigrare
E perdere il suo vicino una volta —
As plan for Noon and plan for Night
So differ Life and Death
In positive Prospective —
The Foot upon the Earth
At Distance, and Achievement, strains,
The Foot upon the Grave
Makes effort at conclusion
Assisted faint of Love.
Come piano per Mezzogiorno e piano per Notte
Così differiscono Vita e Morte
In positiva Prospettiva —
Il Piede sulla Terra
A Distanza, e Compimento, tende,
Il Piede sulla Tomba
Fa sforzo di conclusione
Assistito fioco d’Amore.
Not all die early, dying young —
Maturity of Fate
Is consummated equally
In Ages, or a Night —
A Hoary Boy, I’ve known to drop
Whole statured — by the side
Of Junior of Fourscore — ‘twas Act
Not Period — that died.
Non tutti muoiono presto, morendo giovani —
La Maturità del Fato
Si consuma ugualmente
In Ere, o in una Notte —
Un Fanciullo Canuto, ho visto cadere
In piena statura — al fianco
D’un Giovane d’Ottant’anni — fu l’Atto
Non il Periodo — a morire.
So large my Will
The little that I may
Embarrasses
Like gentle infamy —
Affront to Him
For whom the Whole were small
Affront to me
Who know His Meed of all.
Earth at the best
Is but a scanty Toy —
Bought, carried Home
To Immortality.
It looks so small
We chiefly wonder then
At our Conceit
In purchasing.
Così grande la mia Volontà
il poco che io posso
imbarazza
come gentile infamia —
Affronto a Lui
per cui il Tutto sarebbe piccolo
affronto a me
che so il Suo Merito di tutto.
La Terra al suo meglio
non è che scarso Balocco —
comprato, portato a Casa
all’Immortalità.
Sembra così piccolo
che noi ci stupiamo allora
della nostra Presunzione
nel comprare.
Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
’Tis easiest to lie
And every Grass that plays outside
Is sorry, some, for me.
Where I am not afraid to go
I may confide my Flower —
Who was not Enemy of Me
Will gentle be, to Her.
Nor separate, Herself and Me
By Distances become —
A single Bloom we constitute
Departed, or at Home —
Qui, dove le Margherite si adattano al mio Capo
È più facile giacere
E ogni Erba che gioca là fuori
È dispiaciuta, un poco, per me.
Dove non ho paura di andare
Posso affidare il mio Fiore —
Chi non fu Nemico di Me
Sarà gentile, con Lei.
Né separate, Lei ed Io
Divenute per Distanze —
Un solo Bocciolo costituiamo
Partite, o a Casa —
Ashes denote that Fire was —
Revere the Grayest Pile
For the Departed Creature’s sake
That hovered there awhile —
Fire exists the first in light
And then consolidates
Only the Chemist can disclose
Into what Carbonates.
Ceneri denotano che Fuoco fu —
Riverite il Cumulo più Grigio
Per amore della Creatura Dipartita
Che lì aleggiò per un poco —
Fuoco esiste dapprima in luce
E poi si consolida
Solo il Chimico può svelare
In quali Carbonati.
What Twigs We held by —
Oh the View
When Life’s swift River striven through
We pause before a further plunge
To take Momentum —
As the Fringe
Upon a former Garment shows
The Garment cast,
Our Props disclose
So scant, so eminently small
Of Might to help, so pitiful
To sink, if We had labored, fond
The diligence were not more blind
How scant, by everlasting Light
The Discs that satisfied Our Sight —
How dimmer than a Saturn’s Bar
The Things esteemed, for Things that are!
A che Rametti Ci reggevamo —
Oh la Vista
Quando il rapido Fiume della Vita traversato a fatica
Sostiamo prima di un altro tuffo
Per prendere Slancio —
Come la Frangia
Su una Veste d’un tempo mostra
La Veste dismessa,
I Nostri Sostegni si rivelano
Così scarsi, così eminentemente piccoli
Di Forza in aiuto, così pietosi
Da affondare, se avessimo penato, devoti
La diligenza non sarebbe stata più cieca
Come scarsi, alla Luce eterna
I Dischi che appagavano la Nostra Vista —
Quanto più fiochi della Fascia di un Saturno
Le Cose stimate, rispetto alle Cose che sono!
That this should feel the need of Death
The same as those that lived
Is such a Feat of Irony
As never was — achieved —
Not satisfied to ape the Great
In his simplicity
The small must die, as well as He —
Oh the Audacity —
Che questo senta il bisogno della Morte
Al pari di quelli che vissero
È tale Prodezza d’Ironia
Quale mai fu — compiuta —
Non pago di scimmiottare il Grande
Nella sua semplicità
Il piccolo deve morire, così come Lui —
Oh l’Audacia —
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the Place
Agony that enacted there
Motionless as Peace
Weeds triumphant ranged
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone Orthography
Of the Elder Dead
Winds of Summer Fields
Recollect the way —
Instinct picking up the Key
Dropped by memory —
Dopo cent’anni
Nessuno conosce il Luogo
L’Agonia che là si compì
Immobile come Pace
Erbacce trionfanti schierate
Estranei passeggiavano e compitavano
La solitaria Ortografia
Dei Morti più Antichi
Venti dei Campi d’Estate
Ricordano la via —
L’Istinto raccoglie la Chiave
Caduta alla memoria —
A full fed Rose on meals of Tint
A Dinner for a Bee
In process of the Noon became -
Each bright Mortality
The Forfeit is of Creature fair
Itself, adored before
Submitting for our unknown sake
To be esteemed no more —
Una Rosa ben nutrita a pasti di Tinta
Un Pranzo per un’Ape
Nel corso del Meriggio divenne -
Ogni fulgida Mortalità
Il Pegno è della Creatura bella
Se stessa, adorata prima
Che si sottomette per il nostro ignoto bene
A non essere stimata più —
Step lightly on this narrow spot —
The broadest Land that grows
Is not so ample as the Breast
These Emerald Seams enclose.
Step lofty, for this name be told
As far as Cannon dwell
Or Flag subsist or Fame export
Her deathless Syllable.
Cammina lieve su questo angusto luogo —
La più vasta Terra che cresce
Non è così ampia come il Petto
Che queste Cuciture di Smeraldo racchiudono.
Cammina altero, ché questo nome sia detto
Fin dove dimora il Cannone
O sussiste Bandiera o la Fama esporta
La sua immortale Sillaba.
‘Twas fighting for his Life he was —
That sort accomplish well —
The Ordnance of Vitality
Is frugal of its Ball.
It aims once — kills once — conquers once —
There is no second War
In that Campaign inscrutable
Of the Interior.
Era per la sua Vita che lottava —
Quella sorta riesce bene —
L’Artiglieria della Vitalità
È frugale della sua Palla.
Mira una volta — uccide una volta — vince una volta —
Non c’è una seconda Guerra
In quella Campagna imperscrutabile
Dell’Interiore.
Some we see no more, Tenements of Wonder
Occupy to us though perhaps to them
Simpler are the Days than the Supposition
Leave us to presume
That oblique Belief which we call Conjecture
Grapples with a Theme stubborn as Sublime
Able as the Dust to equip its feature
Adequate as Drums
To enlist the Tomb.
Alcuni non li vediamo più, Dimore di Meraviglia
Occupano per noi benché forse per loro
Più semplici siano i Giorni della Supposizione
Che ci lasciano presumere
Quell’obliqua Credenza che chiamiamo Congettura
Si avvinghia a un Tema ostinato come il Sublime
Capace come la Polvere di armarne il volto
Adeguata come Tamburi
Ad arruolare la Tomba.
Not any higher stands the Grave
For Heroes than for Men —
Not any nearer for the Child
Than numb Three Score and Ten —
This latest Leisure equal lulls
The Beggar and his Queen
Propitiate this Democrat
A Summer’s Afternoon —
Non più alta sta la Tomba
Per gli Eroi che per gli Uomini —
Non più vicina per il Bimbo
Che per i torpidi Settant’anni —
Quest’ultimo Riposo uguale culla
Il Mendicante e la sua Regina
Propiziate questo Democratico
Un Pomeriggio d’Estate —
So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed —
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be
Immediately — that Anguish stooped
Almost to Jealousy —
Così fiera era di morire
Che tutti ci fece vergognare
Che ciò che avevamo caro, così ignoto
Al suo desiderio sembrasse —
Così appagata di andare
Dove nessuno di noi sarebbe stato
Subito — che l’Angoscia si chinò
Quasi fino alla Gelosia —
Lain in Nature — so suffice us
The enchantless Pod
When we advertise existence
For the missing Seed —
Maddest Heart that God created
Cannot move a sod
Pasted by the simple summer
On the Longed for Dead
Deposti in Natura — così ci basti
Il Baccello senza incanto
Quando annunciamo esistenza
Per il Seme mancante —
Il più folle Cuore che Dio creò
Non può smuovere una zolla
Incollata dalla semplice estate
Sui Morti Sospirati
The Notice that is called the Spring
Is but a month from here —
Put up my Heart thy Hoary work
And take a Rosy Chair.
Not any House the Flowers keep —
The Birds enamor Care —
Our salary the longest Day
Is nothing but a Bier.
L’Annuncio che si chiama Primavera
È a un mese soltanto da qui —
Riponi mio Cuore la tua Canuta opera
E prendi una Sedia Rosea.
Non una Casa i Fiori tengono —
Gli Uccelli innamorano la Cura —
Il nostro salario il Giorno più lungo
Non è nient’altro che un Feretro.
Praise it — ‘tis dead —
It cannot glow —
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here —
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust —
Remitted — since it flitted it
In recusance august.
Lodatelo — è morto —
Non può ardere —
Scaldate quest’inclemente Orecchio
Con l’encomio che ha meritato
Da quando fu raccolto qui —
Investite questo Zelo d’alabastro
Nelle Delizie della Polvere —
Rimesso — da che lo fuggì
In augusta recusanza.
She laid her docile Crescent down
And this confiding Stone
Still states to Dates that have forgot
The News that she is gone —
So constant to its stolid trust,
The Shaft that never knew —
It shames the Constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew —
Lei depose la sua docile Falce
E questa fiduciosa Pietra
Ancora annuncia a Date che hanno scordato
La Notizia che lei se n’è andata —
Così costante al suo stolido incarico,
La Stele che mai seppe —
Fa vergognare la Costanza fuggita
Prima che il suo emblema volasse —
Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep —
Its awful chamber open stands —
Its Curtains blandly sweep —
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades —
Whose Axis never comes.
L’Acqua fa molti Letti
Per chi è avverso al sonno —
La sua camera tremenda sta aperta —
Le sue Cortine scivolano blande —
Aborrito è il Riposo
In Stanze ondulanti
La cui Ampiezza nessuna fine invade —
Il cui Asse mai giunge.
We knew not that we were to live —
Nor when — we are to die —
Our ignorance — our cuirass is —
We wear Mortality
As lightly as an Option Gown
Till asked to take it off —
By his intrusion, God is known —
It is the same with Life —
Non sapevamo che avremmo vissuto —
Né quando — dovremo morire —
La nostra ignoranza — è la nostra corazza —
Indossiamo la Mortalità
Lieve come un Abito a scelta
Finché non ci chiedono di toglierlo —
Dalla sua intrusione si conosce Dio —
Lo stesso è della Vita —
The Face in evanescence lain
Is more distinct than ours —
And ours surrendered for its sake
As Capsules are for Flower’s —
Or is it the confiding sheen
Dissenting to enamor us
Of Detriment divine?
Il Volto in evanescenza adagiato
È più distinto del nostro —
E il nostro arreso per amor suo
Come le Capsule per il Fiore —
O è la confidente lucentezza
Che dissente dal farci innamorare
Del Detrimento divino?
More than the Grave is closed to me —
The Grave and that Eternity
To which the Grave adheres —
I cling to nowhere till I fall —
The Crash of nothing, yet of all —
How similar appears —
Più che la Tomba mi è chiusa —
La Tomba e quell’Eternità
A cui la Tomba aderisce —
Non mi aggrappo a nulla finché cado —
Lo Schianto di niente, eppure di tutto —
Come simile appare —
Oh give it Motion — deck it sweet
With Artery and Vein —
Upon its fastened Lips lay words —
Affiance it again
To that Pink stranger we call Dust —
Acquainted more with that
Than with this horizontal one
That will not lift its Hat —
Oh dagli Moto — adornalo dolce
Con Arteria e Vena —
Sulle sue Labbra serrate posa parole —
Fidanzalo di nuovo
A quella Rosea straniera che chiamiamo Polvere —
Più in confidenza con quella
Che con questo orizzontale
Che non solleverà il Cappello —
DIE,
This Me — that walks and works — must die,
Some fair or stormy Day,
Adversity if it may be
Or wild prosperity
The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my mind was born
Not even a Prognostic’s push
Can make a Dent thereon —
MORIRE,
Questo Me — che cammina e opera — deve morire,
Un Giorno sereno o in tempesta,
Avversità se così sarà
O selvaggia prosperità
La Porta della Diceria fu serrata così stretta
Prima che nascesse la mia mente
Che nemmeno la spinta d’un Pronostico
Può farvi un’Ammaccatura —
So give me back to Death —
The Death I never feared
Except that it deprived of thee —
And now, by Life deprived,
In my own Grave I breathe
And estimate its size —
Its size is all that Hell can guess —
And all that Heaven was —
Rendimi dunque alla Morte —
La Morte che mai temetti
Se non perché privava di te —
E ora, dalla Vita privata,
Nella mia stessa Tomba respiro
E ne stimo la misura —
La sua misura è tutto ciò che l’Inferno può congetturare —
E tutto ciò che il Cielo era —
Still own thee — still thou art
What surgeons call alive —
Though slipping — slipping I perceive
To thy reportless Grave —
Which question shall I clutch —
What answer wrest from thee
Before thou dost exude away
In the recallless sea?
Ancora ti possiedo — ancora tu sei
Ciò che i chirurghi chiamano vivo —
Benché scivolare — scivolare io ti scorga
Verso la tua Tomba senza annuncio —
Quale domanda afferrerò —
Quale risposta strapparti
Prima che tu trasudi via
Nel mare senza richiamo?
Advance is Life’s condition
The Grave but a Relay
Supposed to be a terminus
That makes it hated so —
The Tunnel is not lighted
Existence with a wall
Is better we consider
Than not exist at all —
L’Avanzare è condizione della Vita
La Tomba non che una Staffetta
Supposta essere un capolinea
Ciò la rende così odiata —
Il Tunnel non è illuminato
Un’Esistenza con un muro
È meglio consideriamo
Che non esistere affatto —
I know of people in the Grave
Who would be very glad
To know the news I know tonight
If they the chance had had.
‘Tis this expands the least event
And swells the scantest deed —
My right to walk upon the Earth
If they this moment had.
So di gente nella Tomba
che sarebbe assai felice
di sapere la notizia che so stanotte
se ne avesse avuto l’occasione.
È questo che espande il minimo evento
e gonfia l’atto più esiguo —
Il mio diritto di camminare sulla Terra
se loro questo istante avessero.
The grave my little cottage is,
Where “Keeping house” for thee
I make my parlor orderly
And lay the marble tea.
For two divided, briefly,
A cycle, it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.
La tomba è il mio piccolo cottage,
Dove “governando la casa” per te
Metto in ordine il mio salotto
E apparecchio il tè di marmo.
Per due divisi, brevemente,
Un ciclo, può darsi,
Finché vita eterna non unisca
In salda società.
This docile one inter
While we who dare to live
Arraign the sunny brevity
That sparkled to the Grave.
On her departing span
No wilderness remain
As dauntless in the House of Death
As if it were her own —
Questa docile seppellite
Mentre noi che osiamo vivere
Accusiamo la brevità solare
Che scintillò fino alla Grave.
Sul suo arco che si congeda
Nessun deserto rimanga
Impavida nella Casa della Death
Come se fosse la sua —
MY DEAR FRIEND A.,—It is a long, long time since I received your welcome letter, and it becomes me to sue for forgiveness, which I am sure your affectionate heart will not refuse to grant. But many and unforeseen circumstances have caused my long delay… . Father and mother thought a journey would be of service to me, and accordingly I left home for Boston week before last. I had a delightful ride in the cars, and am now getting settled down, if there can be such a state in the city. I am visiting in my aunt’s family, and am happy. Happy! did I say? No; not happy, but contented. I have been here a fortnight to-day, and in that time I have both seen and heard a great many wonderful things. Perhaps you might like to know how I have spent the time here. I have been to Mount Auburn, to the Chinese Museum, to Bunker Hill; I have attended two concerts and one Horticultural Exhibition. I have been upon the top of the State House, and almost everywhere that you can imagine. Have you ever been to Mount Auburn? If not, you can form but slight conception of this “City of the Dead.” It seems as if nature had formed this spot with a distinct idea in view of its being a resting-place for her children, where, wearied and disappointed, they might stretch themselves beneath the spreading cypress, and close their eyes “calmly as to a night’s repose, or flowers at set of sun.”
The Chinese Museum is a great curiosity. There are an endless variety of wax figures made to resemble the Chinese, and dressed in their costume. Also articles of Chinese manufacture of an innumerable variety deck the rooms. Two of the Chinese go with this exhibition. One of them is a professor of music in China, and the other is teacher of a writing-school at home. They were both wealthy, and not obliged to labor, but they were also opium-eaters; and fearing to continue the practice lest it destroy their lives, yet unable to break the “rigid chain of habit” in their own land, they left their families, and came to this country. They have now entirely overcome the practice. There is something peculiarly interesting to me in their self-denial. The musician played upon two of his instruments, and accompanied them with his voice. It needed great command over my risible faculties to enable me to keep sober as this amateur was performing; yet he was so very polite to give us some of his native music that we could not do otherwise than to express ourselves highly edified with his performances. The writing-master is constantly occupied in writing the names of visitors who request it, upon cards in the Chinese language, for which he charges 12½ cents apiece. He never fails to give his card besides to the persons who wish it. I obtained one of his cards for Viny and myself, and I consider them very precious. Are you still in. Norwich, and attending to music? I am not now taking lessons, but I expect to when I return home.
Does it seem as though September had come? How swiftly summer has fled, and what report has it borne to heaven of misspent time and wasted hours? Eternity only will answer. The ceaseless flight of the seasons is to me a very solemn thought; and yet why do we not strive to make a better improvement of them? With how much emphasis the poet has said, “We take no note of time but from its loss. ‘Twere wise in man to give it then a tongue. Pay no moment but in just purchase of its worth, and what its worth ask death-beds. They can tell. Part with it as with life reluctantly.” Then we have higher authority than that of man for the improvement of our time. For God has said, “Work while the day lasts, for the night is coming in the which no man can work.” Let us strive together to part with time more reluctantly, to watch the pinions of the fleeting moment until they are dim in the distance, and the new-coming moment claims our attention. I have perfect confidence in God and His promises, and yet I know not why I feel that the world holds a predominant place in my affections… . Your affectionate friend,
Sic transit gloria mundi, How doth the busy bee— Dum vivimus vivamus, I stay mine enemy.
Oh, veni, vidi, vici, Oh, caput, cap-a-pie, And oh, memento mori When I am far from thee.
Hurrah for Peter Parley, Hurrah for Daniel Boone, Three cheers, sir, for the gentlemen Who first observed the moon.
Peter put up the sunshine, Pattie arrange the stars, Tell Luna tea is waiting, And call your brother Mars.
Put down the apple, Adam, And come away with me; So shall thou have a pippin From off my father’s tree.
I climb the hill of science I “view the landscape o’er,” Such transcendental prospect I ne’er beheld before.
Unto the Legislature My country bids me go. I’ll take my india-rubbers, In case the wind should blow.
During my education, It was announced to me That gravitation, stumbling, Fell from an apple-tree.
The earth upon its axis Was once supposed to turn, By way of a gymnastic In honor to the sun.
It was the brave Columbus, A-sailing on the tide, Who notified the nations Of where I would reside.
Mortality is fatal, Gentility is fine, Rascality heroic, Insolvency sublime.
Our fathers being weary Lay down on Bunker Hill, And though full many a morning, Yet they are sleeping still.
The trumpet, sir, shall wake them, In dream I see them rise, Each with a solemn musket A-marching to the skies.
A coward will remain, sir, Until the fight is done, But an immortal hero Will take his hat and run.
Good-by, sir, I am going— My country calleth me. Allow me, sir, at parting To wipe my weeping e’e.
In token of our friendship Accept this Bonnie Doon, And when the hand that plucked it Has passed beyond the moon,
The memory of my ashes Will consolation be. Then farewell, Tuscarora, And farewell, sir, to thee.
The prettiest of pleas, dear, but with a lynx like me quite unavailable. Finding is slow, facilities for losing so frequent, in a world like this, I hold with extreme caution. A prudence so astute may seem unnecessary, but plenty moves those most, dear, who have been in want, and Saviour tells us, Kate, the poor are always with us. Were you ever poor? I have been a beggar, and rich to-night, as by God’s leave I believe I am, the “lazzaroni’s” faces haunt, pursue me still!
You do not yet “dislimn,” Kate. Distinctly sweet your face stands in its phantom niche—I touch your hand—my cheek your cheek—I stroke your vanished hair. Why did you enter, sister, since you must depart? Had not its heart been torn enough but you must send your shred?
Oh, our condor Kate! Come from your crags again! Oh, dew upon the bloom fall yet again a summer’s night! Of such have been the frauds which have vanquished faces, sown plant of flesh the church-yard plats, and occasioned angels.
There is a subject, dear, on which we never touch. Ignorance of its pageantries does not deter me. I too went out to meet the dust early in the morning. I too in daisy mounds possess hid treasure, therefore I guard you more. You did not tell me you had once been a “millionaire.” Did my sister think that opulence could be mistaken? Some trinket will remain, some babbling plate or jewel.
I write you from the summer. The murmuring leaves fill up the chinks through which the winter red shone when Kate was here, and F——was here, and frogs sincerer than our own splash in their Maker’s pools. It’s but a little past, dear, and yet how far from here it seems, fled with the snow! So through the snow go many loving feet parted by ‘Alps.’ How brief, from vineyards and the sun!
Parents and Vinnie request love to be given girl.
DEAR MRS. HOLLAND AND MINNIE, AND DR. HOLLAND too—I have stolen away from company to write a note to you; and to say that I love you still.
I am not at home—I have been away just five weeks today, and shall not go quite yet back to Massachusetts. Vinnie is with me here, and we have wandered together into many new ways.
We were three weeks in Washington, while father was there, and have been two in Philadelphia. We have had many pleasant times, and seen much that is fair, and heard much that is wonderful—many sweet ladies and noble gentlemen have taken us by the hand and smiled upon us pleasantly—and the sun shines brighter for our way thus far.
I will not tell you what I saw—the elegance, the grandeur; you will not care to know the value of the diamonds my Lord and Lady wore, but if you haven’t been to the sweet Mount Vernon, then I will tell you how on one soft spring day we glided down the Potomac in a painted boat, and jumped upon the shore—how hand in hand we stole along up a tangled pathway till we reached the tomb of General George Washington, how we paused beside it, and no one spoke a word, then hand in hand, walked on again, not less wise or sad for that marble story; how we went within the door—raised the latch he lifted when he last went home—thank the Ones in Light that he’s since passed in through a brighter wicket! Oh, I could spend a long day, if it did not weary you, telling of Mount Vernon —and I will sometime if we live and meet again, and God grant we shall!
I wonder if you have all forgotten us, we have stayed away so long. I hope you haven’t—I tried to write so hard before I went from home, but the moments were so busy, and then they flew so. I was sure when days did come in which I was less busy, I should seek your forgiveness, and it did not occur to me that you might not forgive me. Am I too late to-day? Even if you are angry, I shall keep praying you, till from very weariness, you will take me in. It seems to me many a day since we were in Springfield, and Minnie and the dumb-bells seem as vague—as vague; and sometimes I wonder if I ever dreamed—then if I’m dreaming now, then if I always dreamed, and there is not a world, and not these darling friends, for whom I would not count my life too great a sacrifice. Thank God there is a world, and that the friends we love dwell forever and ever in a house above. I fear I grow incongruous, but to meet my friends does delight me so that I quite forget time and sense and so forth.
Now, my precious friends, if you won’t forget me until I get home, and become more sensible, I will write again, and more properly. Why didn’t I ask before, if you were well and happy?
Don’t tell, dear Mrs. Holland, but wicked as I am, I read my Bible sometimes, and in it as I read to-day, I found a verse like this, where friends should “go no more out”; and there were “no tears,” and I wished as I sat down to-night that we were there—not here—and that wonderful world had commenced, which makes such promises, and rather than to write you, I were by your side, and the “hundred and forty and four thousand” were chatting pleasantly, yet not disturbing us. And I’m half tempted to take my seat in that Paradise of which the good man writes, and begin forever and ever now, so wondrous does it seem. My only sketch; profile, of Heaven is a large, blue sky, bluer and larger than the biggest I have seen in June, and in it are my friends—all of them—every one of them—those who are with me now, and those who were “parted” as we walked, and “snatched up to Heaven.”
If roses had not faded, and frosts had never come, and one had not fallen here and there whom I could not waken, there were no need of other Heaven than the one below—and if God had been here this summer, and seen the things that I have seen—I guess that He would think His Paradise superfluous. Don’t tell Him, for the world, though, for after all He’s said about it, I should like to see what He was building for us, with no hammer, and no stone, and no journeyman either. Dear Mrs. Holland, I love, to-night—love you and Dr. Holland, and “time and sense”—and fading things, and things that do not fade.
I’m so glad you are not a blossom, for those in my garden fade, and then a “reaper whose name is Death” has come to get a few to help him make a bouquet for himself, so I’m glad you are not a rose—and I’m glad you are not a bee, for where they go when summer’s done, only the thyme knows, and even were you a robin, when the west winds came, you would coolly wink at me, and away, some morning!
As “little Mrs. Holland,” then, I think I love you most, and trust that tiny lady will dwell below while we dwell, and when with many a wonder we seek the new Land, her wistful face, with ours, shall look the last upon the hills, and first upon—well, Home!
Pardon my sanity, Mrs. Holland, in a world insane, and love me if you will, for I had rather be loved than to be called a king in earth, or a lord in Heaven.
Thank you for your sweet note—the clergy are very well. Will bring such fragments from them as shall seem me good. I kiss my paper here for you and Dr. Holland—would it were cheeks instead.
We never forget Mary.
DEAR MR. BOWLES,—Thank you.
Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see! But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!4
You spoke of the “East.” I have thought about it this winter.
Don’t you think you and I should be shrewder to take the mountain road?
That bareheaded life, under the grass, worries one like a wasp.
The rose is for Mary.
DEAR MARY,—When the best is gone, I know that other things are not of consequence. The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.
You wonder why I write so. Because I cannot help. I like to have you know some care—so when your life gets faint for its other life, you can lean on us. We won’t break, Mary. We look very small, but the reed can carry weight.
Not to see what we love is very terrible, and talking doesn’t ease it, and nothing does but just itself. The eyes and hair we chose are all there are—to us. Isn’t it so, Mary?
I often wonder how the love of Christ is done when that below holds so.
I hope the little “Robert” coos away the pain. Perhaps your flowers help, some… .
The frogs sing sweet to-day—they have such pretty, lazy times—how nice to be a frog! …
Mother sends her love to you—she has a sprained foot, and can go but little in the house, and not abroad at all.
Don’t dishearten, Mary, we’ll keep thinking of you. Kisses for all.
DEAR FRIEND,—You go away—and where you go we cannot come—but then the months have names—and each one comes but once a year—and though it seems they never could, they sometimes do, go by.
We hope you are more well than when you lived in America, and that those foreign people are kind, and true, to you. We hope you recollect each life you left behind, even ours, the least.
We wish we knew how Amherst looked, in your memory. Smaller than it did, maybe, and yet things swell, by leaving, if big in themselves.
We hope you will not alter, but be the same we grieved for when the China sailed.
If you should like to hear the news, we did not die here—we did not change. We have the guests we did, except yourself—and the roses hang on the same stems as before you went. Vinnie trains the honeysuckle, and the robins steal the string for nests—quite, quite as they used to.
I have the errand from my heart—I might forget to tell it. Would you please to come home? The long life’s years are scant, and fly away, the Bible says, like a told story—and sparing is a solemn thing, somehow, it seems to me —and I grope fast, with my fingers, for all out of my sight I own, to get it nearer.
I had one letter from Mary. I think she tries to be patient —but you wouldn’t want her to succeed, would you, Mr. Bowles?
It’s fragrant news, to know they pine, when we are out of sight.
It is ‘most Commencement. The little cousin from Boston has come, and the hearts in Pelham have an added thrill. We shall miss you, most, dear friend, who annually smiled with us, at the gravities. I question if even Dr. Vaill have his wonted applause.
Should anybody, where you go, talk of Mrs. Browning, you must hear for us, and if you touch her grave, put one hand on the head, for me—her unmentioned mourner.
Father and mother, and Vinnie and Carlo, send their love to you, and warm wish for your health—and I am taking lessons in prayer, so to coax God to keep you safe. Good-night, dear friend. You sleep so far, how can I know you hear?
I should think you would have few letters, for your own are so noble that they make men afraid. And sweet as your approbation is, it is had in fear, lest your depth convict us.
You compel us each to remember that when water ceases to rise, it has commenced falling. That is the law of flood.
The last day that I saw you was the newest and oldest of my life.
Resurrection can come but once, first, to the same house. Thank you for leading us by it.
Come always, dear friend, but refrain from going. You spoke of not liking to be forgotten. Could you, though you would?
Treason never knew you.
… Sorrow seems more general than it did, and not the estate of a few persons, since the war began; and if the anguish of others helped one with one’s own, now would be many medicines.
‘Tis dangerous to value, for only the precious can alarm. I noticed that Robert Browning had made another poem, and was astonished—till I remembered that I, myself, in my smaller way, sang off charnel steps. Every day life feels mightier, and what we have the power to be, more stupendous.
The will is always near, dear, though the feet vary. The terror of the winter has made a little creature of me, who thought myself so bold. .
Father was very sick. I presumed he would die, and the sight of his lonesome face all day was harder than personal trouble. He is growing better, though physically reluctantly. I hope I am mistaken, but I think his physical life don’t want to live any longer. You know he never played, and the straightest engine has its leaning hour. Vinnie was not here. Now we will turn the comer. All this while I was with you all, much of every hour, wishing we were near enough to assist each other. Would you have felt more at home, to know we were both in extremity? That would be my only regret that I had not told you.
As regards the “pine” and the “jay,” it is a long tryst, but I think they are able. I have spoken with them.
Of the “thorn,” dear, give it to me, for I am strongest. Never carry what I can carry, for though I think I bend, something straightens me. Go to the “wine-press,” dear, and come back and say has the number altered. I descry but one. What I would, I cannot say in so small a place.
Interview is acres, while the broadest letter feels a bandaged place… .
Tell F——we hold her tight. Tell L——love is oldest and takes care of us, though just now in a piercing place.
When, in June of 1874, Emily’s father died suddenly in Boston,—taken ill, indeed, while making a speech in the Legislature, and dying within a few hours,—the effect upon her was as if the foundations of her world had given way. She gathered herself together in a measure, and after a few days wrote to her cousins:—
You might not remember me, dears. I cannot recall myself. I thought I was strongly built, but this stronger has undermined me.
We were eating our supper the fifteenth of June, and Austin came in. He had a despatch in his hand, and I saw by his face we were all lost, though I didn’t know how. He said that father was very sick, and he and Vinnie must go. The train had already gone. While horses were dressing, news came he was dead.
Father does not live with us now—he lives in a new house. Though it was built in an hour it is better than this. He hasn’t any garden because he moved after gardens were made, so we take him the best flowers, and if we only knew he knew, perhaps we could stop crying… . The grass begins after Pat has stopped it.
I cannot write any more, dears. Though it is many nights, my mind never comes home. Thank you each for the love, though I could not notice it. Almost the last tune that he heard was, “Rest from thy loved employ.”
DEAR CHILDREN,—I decide to give you one more package of lemon drops, as they only come once a year. It is fair that the bonbons should change hands, you have so often fed me. This is the very weather that I lived with you those amazing years that I had a father. W. D.——‘s wife came in last week for a day and a night, saying her heart drove her. I am glad that you loved Miss W——on knowing her nearer. Charlotte Brontë said “Life is so constructed that the event does not, cannot, match the expectation.”
The birds that father rescued are trifling in his trees. How flippant are the saved! They were even frolicking at his grave, when Vinnie went there yesterday. Nature must be too young to feel, or many years too old.
Now children, when you are cutting the loaf, a crumb, peradventure, a crust; of love for the sparrows’ table… .
DEAR COUSINS,—I hoped to write you before, but mother’s dying almost stunned my spirit.
I have answered a few inquiries of love, but written little intuitively. She was scarcely the aunt you knew. The great mission of pain had been ratified—cultivated to tenderness by persistent sorrow, so that a larger mother died than had she died before. There was no earthly parting. She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called “the infinite.”
We don’t know where she is, though so many tell us.
I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker—that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power still farther to surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all is silence… .
Mother was very beautiful when she had died. Seraphs are solemn artists. The illumination that comes but once paused upon her features, and it seemed like hiding a picture to lay her in the grave; but the grass that received my father will suffice his guest, the one he asked at the altar to visit him all his life.
I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea… . Thank you for remembering me. Remembrance—mighty word.
“Thou gavest it to me from the foundation of the world.”
MR. HIGINSON,—Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude, but I was ill, and write to-day from my pillow.
Thank you for the surgery; it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb.
You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir.
I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid.
You inquire my books. For poets, I have Keats, and Mr. and Mrs. Browning. For prose, Mr. Ruskin, Sir Thomas Browne, and the Revelations. I went to school, but in your manner of the phrase had no education. When a little girl, I had a friend who taught me Immortality; but venturing too near, himself, he never returned. Soon after my tutor died, and for several years my lexicon was my only companion. Then I found one more, but he was not contented I be his scholar, so he left the land.
You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself, that my father bought me. They are better than beings because they know, but do not tell; and the noise in the pool at noon excels my piano.
I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind. They are religious, except me, and address an eclipse, every morning, whom they call their “Father.”
But I fear my story fatigues you. I would like to learn. Could you tell me how to grow, or is it unconveyed, like melody or witchcraft?
You speak of Mr. Whitman. I never read his book, but was told that it was disgraceful.
I read Miss Prescott’s Circumstance, but it followed me in the dark, so I avoided her.
Two editors of journals came to my father’s house this winter, and asked me for my mind, and when I asked them “why” they said I was penurious, and they would use it for the world.
I could not weigh myself, myself. My size felt small to me. I read your chapters in The Atlantic, and experienced honor for you. I was sure you would not reject a confiding question.
Is this, sir, what you asked me to tell you?
To live is so startling, it leaves but little room for other occupations, though friends are, if possible, an event more fair.
I am happy you have the travel you so long desire, and chastened that my master met neither accident nor Death.
Our own possessions, though our own, ‘tis well to hoard anew, remembering the dimensions of possibility. I often saw your name in illustrious mention, and envied an occasion so abstinent to me. Thank you for having been to Amherst. Could you come again that would be far better, though the finest wish is the futile one.
When I saw you last, it was mighty summer—now the grass is glass, and the meadow stucco, and “still waters” in the pool where the frog drinks.
These behaviors of the year hurt almost like music, shifting when it ease us most. Thank you for the “lesson.”
I will study it, though hitherto,—
Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
DEAR AUNT,—Thank you for “considering the lilies.”
The Bible must have had us in mind, when it gave that liquid commandment. Were all its advice so enchanting as that, we should probably heed it.
Thank you for promptness, explicitness, sweetness. Your account of the lilies was so fresh I could almost pick them, and the hope to meet them in person, in autumn, through your loving hand, is a fragrant future.
I hope you are well as you deserve, which is a blest circumference, and give my love to each.
Aunt L———just looked in on us, and I go to make her dish of homestead Charlotte Russe.
DEAR FRIEND,—I had the luxury of a mother a month longer than you, for my own mother died in November, but the anguish also was granted me to see the first snow upon her grave the following day, which, dear friend, you were spared.
But Remembrance engulfs me, and I must cease.
I wish I could speak a word of courage, though that love has already done. Who could be motherless who has a mother’s grave within confiding reach?
Let me enclose the tenderness born of bereavement.
To have had a mother—how mighty!
… Mr. Hunt was tinning a post this morning, and told us L——didn’t feel quite as well as usual, and I haven’t felt quite as well as usual since the chestnuts were ripe, though it wasn’t the chestnuts’ fault, but the crocuses are so martial and the daffodils to the second joint, let us join hands and recover.
“I do remember an apothecary,” said that sweeter robin than Shakespeare, was a loved paragraph which has lain on my pillow all winter, but perhaps Shakespeare has been .“up street” oftener than I have, this winter,
Would father’s youngest sister believe that in the “Shire town” where he and Blackstone went to school, a man was hung yesterday, for the murder of a man by the name of Dickinson, and that Miss M——was poisoned by a strolling juggler to be tried in the Supreme Court next week?
Don’t you think fumigation ceased when father died?
Poor, romantic Miss M——! But perhaps a Police Gazette was better for you than an essay.
I hope you are both stronger, and ask a word of gain with these ecstatic days. I give my anxious love, and Vinnie’s faithfulness with mine.