The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -
The berry’s cheek is plumper -
The Rose is out of town -
The maple wears a gayer scarf -
The field - a scarlet gown -
Lest I sh’d seem old fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on!
Le mattine sono più miti di un tempo -
Le noci si fanno brune -
La guancia della bacca è più paffuta -
La Rosa è fuori città -
L’acero porta una sciarpa più gaia -
Il campo - una veste scarlatta -
Perché io non sembri fuori moda
Mi metterò un monile!
New feet within my garden go,
New fingers stir the sod ;
A troubadour upon the elm
Betrays the solitude.
New children play upon the green,
New weary sleep below ;
And still the pensive spring returns,
And still the punctual snow !
Nuovi piedi nel mio giardino vanno,
Nuove dita smuovono la zolla ;
Un trovatore sull’olmo
Tradisce la solitudine.
Nuovi bambini giocano sul prato,
Nuovi stanchi nel sonno di sotto ;
E ancora la pensosa primavera ritorna,
E ancora la puntuale neve !
These are the days when Birds come back —
A very few — a Bird or two —
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old — old sophistries of June —
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee —
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear —
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze —
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake —
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!
Questi sono i giorni in cui gli Uccelli tornano —
Pochissimi — un Uccello o due —
A dare uno sguardo indietro.
Questi sono i giorni in cui i cieli riprendono
I vecchi — vecchi sofismi di Giugno —
Un errore azzurro e oro.
Oh frode che non può ingannare l’Ape —
Quasi la tua plausibilità
Induce la mia fede.
Finché file di semi rendano testimonianza —
E piano attraverso l’aria mutata
Corra una timida foglia.
Oh Sacramento dei giorni d’estate,
Oh Ultima Comunione nella Foschia —
Permetti a un bambino di unirsi.
I tuoi sacri emblemi condividere —
Il tuo pane consacrato prendere
E il tuo vino immortale!
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze —
A few incisive Mornings —
A few Ascetic Eves —
Gone — Mr. Bryant’s “Golden Rod” —
And Mr. Thomson’s “sheaves.”
Still, is the bustle in the Brook —
Sealed are the spicy valves —
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves —
Perhaps a squirrel may remain —
My sentiments to share —
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind —
Thy windy will to bear!
Oltre l’Autunno i poeti cantano
Alcuni giorni prosaici
Un poco al di qua della neve
E al di là della Foschia —
Alcuni Mattini incisivi —
Alcune Sere Ascetiche —
Andata — la “Verga d’Oro” di Mr. Bryant —
E i “covoni” di Mr. Thomson.
Quieto, è il brusio nel Ruscello —
Sigillate sono le valve speziate —
Dita mesmeriche toccano lievi
Gli Occhi di molti Elfi —
Forse uno scoiattolo rimarrà —
I miei sentimenti a condividere —
Concedimi, O Signore, una mente soleggiata —
La Tua ventosa volontà da sopportare!
It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross —
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge —
The Dead shall go in White —
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!
Non può essere “Estate”!
Quella — è passata!
È presto — ancora — per la “Primavera”!
C’è quella lunga città di Bianco — da attraversare —
Prima che i Merli cantino!
Non può essere “Morire”!
È troppo Rouge —
I Morti andranno in Bianco —
Così il Tramonto chiude la mia domanda
Con Polsini di Crisolito!
It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —
It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces —
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack — and Stem —
A Summer’s empty Room —
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen —
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —
Setaccia da Crivelli di Piombo —
Impolvera tutto il Bosco.
Riempie di Lana d’Alabastro
Le Rughe della Strada —
Fa un Volto Uniforme
Di Montagna, e di Pianura —
Fronte Ininterrotta dall’Est
Fino all’Est di nuovo —
Arriva fino allo Steccato —
Lo avvolge Traversa per Traversa
Finché si perde in Velli —
Dispensa Celeste Velo
A Ceppo, e Covone — e Stelo —
La Stanza vuota di un’Estate —
Acri di Giunture, dov’erano i Raccolti,
Senza Memoria, se non per loro—
Increspa i Polsi dei Pali
Come Caviglie di una Regina —
Poi acquieta i suoi Artigiani — come Spettri —
Negando che siano mai stati —
There are two Ripenings — one — of sight —
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground —
A homelier maturing —
A process in the Bur —
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air.
Ci sono due Maturazioni — una — di vista —
Le cui forze in Sfera s’avvolgono
Finché il prodotto di Velluto
Non cada speziato al suolo —
Una maturazione più umile —
Un processo dentro il Riccio —
Che denti di Geli soltanto dischiudono
Nella lontana Aria d’Ottobre.
It will be Summer — eventually.
Ladies — with parasols —
Sauntering Gentlemen — with Canes —
And little Girls — with Dolls —
Will tint the pallid landscape —
As ‘twere a bright Bouquet —
Tho’ drifted deep, in Parian —
The Village lies — today —
The Lilacs — bending many a year —
Will sway with purple load —
The Bees — will not despise the tune —
Their Forefathers — have hummed —
The Wild Rose — redden in the Bog —
The Aster — on the Hill
Her everlasting fashion — set —
And Covenant Gentians — frill —
Till Summer folds her miracle —
As Women — do — their Gown —
Or Priests — adjust the Symbols —
When Sacrament — is done —
Sarà Estate — prima o poi.
Signore — con parasoli —
Gentiluomini a passeggio — con Bastoni —
E Bambine — con Bambole —
Tingeranno il pallido paesaggio —
Come un vivido Bouquet —
Benché sepolto fondo, nel Pario —
Il Villaggio giaccia — oggi —
I Lillà — chini da molti anni —
Ondeggeranno sotto il carico purpureo —
Le Api — non disdegneranno la melodia —
Che i loro Antenati — hanno ronzato —
La Rosa Selvatica — rosseggerà nella Palude —
L’Astro — sulla Collina
La sua moda eterna — fisserà —
E le Genziane del Patto — s’incresperanno —
Finché l’Estate ripiega il suo miracolo —
Come le Donne — fanno — con la Veste —
O i Sacerdoti — ricompongono i Simboli —
Quando il Sacramento — è compiuto —
The Winters are so short —
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away —
And moving into Pod —
Myself — for scarcely settled —
The Phoebes have begun —
And then — it’s time to strike my Tent —
And open House — again —
It’s mostly, interruptions —
My Summer — is despoiled —
Because there was a Winter — once —
And al the Cattle — starved —
And so there was a Deluge —
And swept the World away —
But Ararat’s a Legend — now —
And no one credits Noah —
Gli Inverni sono così brevi —
A stento sono giustificata
Nel mandar via tutti gli Uccelli —
E nel trasferirmi in un Baccello —
Io stessa — appena sistemata —
I Febi hanno cominciato —
E allora — è tempo di levare la mia Tenda —
E aprire Casa — di nuovo —
Sono per lo più, interruzioni —
La mia Estate — è depredata —
Perché ci fu un Inverno — una volta —
E tutto il Bestiame — morì di fame —
E così ci fu un Diluvio —
E spazzò via il Mondo —
Ma l’Ararat è una Leggenda — ormai —
E nessuno crede a Noè —
God made a little Gentian —
It tried — to be a Rose —
And failed — and all the Summer laughed —
But just before the Snows
There rose a Purple Creature —
That ravished all the Hill —
And Summer hid her Forehead —
And Mockery — was still —
The Frosts were her condition —
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North — invoke it —
Creator — Shall I — bloom?
Dio fece una piccola Genziana —
Provò — a essere una Rosa —
E fallì — e tutta l’Estate rise —
Ma poco prima delle Nevi
Ecco sorse una Creatura Purpurea —
Che rapì tutta la Collina —
E l’Estate nascose la Fronte —
E lo Scherno — tacque —
I Geli erano la sua condizione —
Il Tirio non sarebbe giunto
Finché il Nord — non lo invochi —
Creatore — Io — fiorirò?
‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms —
It had the Tassels on —
I thought how yellow it would look —
When Richard went to mill —
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red — Apples wedged
The Stubble’s joints between —
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in —
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father’d multiply the plates —
To make an even Sum —
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me —
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year —
Themself, should come to me —
Fu proprio in questo tempo, l’anno scorso, che morii.
So che sentii il Granturco,
Quando fui portata oltre le Fattorie —
Aveva i Pennacchi —
Pensai come giallo sarebbe apparso —
Quando Richard fosse andato al mulino —
E allora, volli uscire,
Ma qualcosa trattenne la mia volontà.
Pensai proprio come Rosse — le Mele incuneate
Fra le giunture della Stoppia —
E i Carri chini intorno ai campi
A raccogliere le Zucche —
Mi chiesi a chi sarei mancata, meno,
E quando il Ringraziamento, fosse giunto,
Se il Padre avrebbe moltiplicato i piatti —
Per fare una Somma pari —
E se avrebbe velato la gioia di Natale
La mia Calza appesa troppo in alto
Perché alcun Babbo Natale raggiunga
L’Altitudine di me —
Ma questa sorta, mi affliggeva,
E così, pensai all’inverso,
Come proprio in questo tempo, in qualche anno perfetto —
Loro stessi, verrebbero da me —
If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.
If certain, when this life was out
That yours and mine should be,
I’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
Se tu venissi in autunno,
Scaccerei via l’estate
Con mezzo sorriso e mezzo sdegno,
Come fanno le massaie con una mosca.
Se potessi vederti fra un anno,
Avvolgerei i mesi in gomitoli,
E li riporrei ciascuno in cassetti separati,
Finché il loro tempo non giunga.
Se solo di secoli tardassi,
Li conterei sulla mano,
Sottraendo finché le dita cadessero
Nella terra di Van Diemen.
Se certa, quando questa vita finisse,
Che la tua e la mia dovessero essere,
La getterei lontano come una buccia,
E gusterei l’eternità.
Ma ora, del tutto ignara della lunghezza
Dell’ala incerta del tempo,
Mi pungola, come l’ape folletto,
Che non dichiara il suo pungiglione.
Conjecturing a Climate
Of unsuspended Suns —
Adds poignancy to Winter —
The Shivering Fancy turns
To a fictitious Country
To palliate a Cold —
Not obviated of Degree —
Nor erased — of Latitude —
Congetturare un Clima
Di Soli mai sospesi —
Aggiunge strazio all’Inverno —
La Rabbrividente Fantasia volge
A un Paese fittizio
Per palliare un Freddo —
Non ovviato di Grado —
Né cancellato — di Latitudine —
My first well Day — since many ill —
I asked to go abroad,
And take the Sunshine in my hands,
And see the things in Pod —
A ‘blossom just when I went in
To take my Chance with pain —
Uncertain if myself, or He,
Should prove the strongest One.
The Summer deepened, while we strove —
She put some flowers away —
And Redder cheeked Ones — in their stead —
A fond — illusive way —
To cheat Herself, it seemed she tried —
As if before a child
To fade — Tomorrow — Rainbows held
The Sepulchre, could hide.
She dealt a fashion to the Nut —
She tied the Hoods to Seeds —
She dropped bright scraps of Tint, about —
And left Brazilian Threads
On every shoulder that she met —
Then both her Hands of Haze
Put up — to hide her parting Grace
From our unfitted eyes.
My loss, by sickness — Was it Loss?
602
Or that Ethereal Gain
One earns by measuring the Grave —
Then — measuring the Sun —
Il mio primo Giorno sano — dopo tanti infermi —
Chiesi di uscire all’aperto,
E prendere il Sole fra le mani,
E vedere le cose in Baccello —
Un ‘bocciolo proprio quando entrai
A tentare la Sorte col dolore —
Incerta se io stessa, o Lui,
Si sarebbe mostrato il più Forte.
L’Estate si fece fonda, mentre lottavamo —
Lei ripose alcuni fiori —
E Altri dalle gote più Rosse — al loro posto —
Un modo tenero — illusorio —
D’ingannare Se stessa, pareva tentasse —
Come se davanti a un bimbo
Che sfiorirà — Domani — Arcobaleni tesi
Potessero il Sepolcro, celare.
Diede una foggia alla Noce —
Legò i Cappucci ai Semi —
Sparse intorno vividi ritagli di Tinta —
E lasciò Fili del Brasile
Su ogni spalla che incontrava —
Poi entrambe le sue Mani di Foschia
Levò — a celare la sua Grazia d’addio
Ai nostri occhi inadatti.
La mia perdita, per malattia — Fu Perdita?
602
O quel Guadagno Etereo
Che si merita misurando la Tomba —
Poi — misurando il Sole —
The name — of it — is “Autumn” —
The hue — of it — is Blood —
An Artery — upon the Hill —
A Vein — along the Road —
Great Globules — in the Alleys —
And Oh, the Shower of Stain —
When Winds — upset the Basin —
And spill the Scarlet Rain —
It sprinkles Bonnets — far below —
It gathers ruddy Pools —
Then — eddies like a Rose — away —
Upon Vermilion Wheels —
Il nome — di ciò — è “Autunno” —
La tinta — di ciò — è Sangue —
Un’Arteria — sopra il Colle —
Una Vena — lungo la Strada —
Grandi Globuli — nei Vicoli —
E Oh, lo Scroscio di Macchia —
Quando i Venti — rovesciano il Bacile —
E versano la Pioggia Scarlatta —
Asperge Cuffie — laggiù in basso —
Raccoglie Pozze rubiconde —
Poi — mulina come una Rosa — via —
Su Ruote Vermiglie —
The Birds reported from the South —
A News express to Me —
A spicy Charge, My little Posts —
But I am deaf — Today —
The Flowers — appealed — a timid Throng —
I reinforced the Door —
Go blossom for the Bees — I said —
And trouble Me — no More —
The Summer Grace, for Notice strove —
Remote — Her best Array —
The Heart — to stimulate the Eye
Refused too utterly —
At length, a Mourner, like Myself,
She drew away austere —
Her frosts to ponder — then it was
I recollected Her —
She suffered Me, for I had mourned —
I offered Her no word —
My Witness — was the Crape I bore —
Her — Witness — was Her Dead —
Thenceforward — We — together dwelt —
I never questioned Her —
Our Contract
A Wiser Sympathy
Gli Uccelli riferirono dal Sud —
Una Notizia espressa per Me —
Un Incarico speziato, Miei piccoli Corrieri —
Ma io sono sorda — Oggi —
I Fiori — supplicarono — timida Folla —
Io rinforzai la Porta —
Andate a fiorire per le Api — dissi —
E non turbateMi — Mai più —
La Grazia dell’Estate, per un Cenno lottò —
Remota — la Sua migliore Parata —
Il Cuore — a stimolare l’Occhio
Rifiutò troppo assolutamente —
Infine, in Lutto, come Me,
Ella si ritrasse austera —
A meditare i Suoi geli — fu allora
Che Mi ricordai di Lei —
Ella Mi tollerò, perché avevo pianto —
Non Le offrii parola —
Il Mio Testimone — era il Crespo che portavo —
Il Suo — Testimone — erano i Suoi Morti —
Da allora — Noi — dimorammo insieme —
Io non La interrogai mai —
Il Nostro Contratto
Una più Saggia Compassione
When I hoped, I recollect
Just the place I stood —
At a Window facing West —
Roughest Air — was good —
Not a Sleet could bite me —
Not a frost could cool —
Hope it was that kept me warm —
Not Merino shawl —
When I feared — I recollect
Just the Day it was —
Worlds were lying out to Sun —
Yet how Nature froze —
Icicles upon my soul
Prickled Blue and Cool —
Bird went praising everywhere —
Only Me — was still —
And the Day that I despaired —
This — if I forget
Nature will — that it be Night
After Sun has set —
Darkness intersect her face —
And put out her eye —
Nature hesitate — before
Memory and I —
Quando speravo, ricordo
Proprio il luogo dove stavo —
A una Finestra volta a Ovest —
L’Aria più aspra — era buona —
Nessun Nevischio poteva mordermi —
Nessun gelo raffreddarmi —
Era la Speranza a tenermi calda —
Non scialle di Merino —
Quando temevo — ricordo
Proprio il Giorno che era —
Mondi distesi al Sole —
Eppure come gelava la Natura —
Ghiaccioli sopra la mia anima
Pungevano Azzurri e Freddi —
L’Uccello lodava ovunque —
Solo Io — ero immobile —
E il Giorno in cui disperai —
Questo — se io lo scordo
Lo farà la Natura — che sia Notte
Dopo che il Sole è tramontato —
Il Buio le intersechi il volto —
E le spenga l’occhio —
La Natura esiti — dinanzi
Alla Memoria e a me —
Twice had Summer her fair Verdure
Proffered to the Plain —
Twice a Winter’s silver Fracture
On the Rivers been —
Two full Autumns for the Squirrel
Bounteous prepared —
Nature, Had’st thou not a Berry
For thy wandering Bird?
Due volte l’Estate il suo bel Verde
Aveva offerto al Piano —
Due volte una Frattura d’argento d’Inverno
Sui Fiumi era stata —
Due Autunni pieni per lo Scoiattolo
Generosa preparò —
Natura, non avevi Tu una Bacca
Per il tuo Uccello errante?
The Products of my Farm are these
Sufficient for my Own
And here and there a Benefit
Unto a Neighbor’s Bin.
With Us, ‘tis Harvest all the Year
For when the Frosts begin
We just reverse the Zodiac
And fetch the Acres in.
I Prodotti della mia Fattoria son questi
sufficienti per i Miei
e qua e là un Beneficio
al Granaio d’un Vicino.
Da Noi, è Raccolto tutto l’Anno
ché quando i Geli cominciano
noi solo invertiamo lo Zodiaco
e portiamo dentro gli Acri.
I cannot meet the Spring unmoved —
I feel the old desire —
A Hurry with a lingering, mixed,
A Warrant to be fair —
A Competition in my sense
With something hid in Her —
And as she vanishes, Remorse
I saw no more of Her.
Non posso incontrare la Primavera impassibile —
Sento l’antico desiderio —
Una Fretta mista a un indugio,
Un Mandato a esser bella —
Una Gara dentro il mio senso
Con qualcosa in Lei nascosto —
E come svanisce, Rimorso
Non vidi più nulla di Lei.
Further in Summer than the Birds -
Pathetic from the Grass -
A Minor Nation celebrates
It’s unobtrusive Mass -
No Ordinance be seen -
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness -
‘Tis Audiblest, at Dusk -
When Day’s attempt is done -
And Nature nothing waits to do
But terminate in Tune -
Nor difference it knows
Of Cadence, or of Pause -
But simultaneous as Same -
The Service emphacize -
Nor know I when it cease -
At Candles, it is here -
When Sunrise is - that it is not -
Than this, I know no more -
The Earth has many keys -
Where Melody is not
Is the Unknown Peninsula -
Beauty - is Nature’s Fact -
But Witness for Her Land -
1113
And Witness for Her Sea -
The Cricket is Her utmost
Of Elegy, to Me -
Più addentro nell’Estate che gli Uccelli -
Patetica dall’Erba -
Una Nazione Minore celebra
La sua discreta Messa -
Nessun Rito si vede -
Così graduale la Grazia
Una pensosa Consuetudine diviene
Che allarga la Solitudine -
È più Udibile, al Crepuscolo -
Quando il tentativo del Giorno è compiuto -
E la Natura nulla attende di fare
Se non terminare in Melodia -
Né differenza conosce
Di Cadenza, o di Pausa -
Ma simultaneo come Uguale -
L’Ufficio enfatizza -
Né so quando cessi -
Alle Candele, è qui -
Quando l’Alba è - allora non è -
Oltre questo, non so di più -
La Terra ha molte chiavi -
Dove Melodia non è
È la Penisola Sconosciuta -
La Bellezza - è il Fatto della Natura -
Ma Testimone per la Sua Terra -
1113
E Testimone per il Suo Mare -
Il Grillo è il Suo estremo
Di Elegia, per Me -
The murmuring of Bees, has ceased
But murmuring of some
Posterior, prophetic,
Has simultaneous come.
The lower metres of the Year
When Nature’s laugh is done
The Revelations of the Book
Whose Genesis was June.
Appropriate Creatures to her change
The Typic Mother sends
As Accent fades to interval
With separating Friends
Till what we speculate, has been
And thoughts we will not show
More intimate with us become
Than Persons, that we know.
Il mormorio delle Api, è cessato
Ma il mormorio di alcuni
Posteriori, profetici,
È giunto simultaneo.
I metri più bassi dell’Anno
Quando il riso della Natura è finito
Le Rivelazioni del Libro
La cui Genesi fu giugno.
Creature appropriate al suo mutare
Manda la Madre Tipica
Come l’Accento sfuma in intervallo
Fra Amici che si separano
Finché ciò che congetturiamo, è stato
E pensieri che non mostreremo
Ci divengono più intimi
Delle Persone, che conosciamo.
The Day grew small, surrounded tight
By early, stooping Night —
The Afternoon in Evening deep
Its Yellow shortness dropt —
The Winds went out their martial ways
The Leaves obtained excuse —
November hung his Granite Hat
Upon a nail of Plush —
Il Giorno si fece piccolo, serrato stretto
Dalla precoce, curva Notte —
Il Pomeriggio nella Sera fonda
Lasciò cadere la sua Gialla brevità —
I Venti uscirono per le loro vie marziali
Le Foglie ottennero congedo —
Novembre appese il suo Cappello di Granito
A un chiodo di Felpa —
The pungent atom in the Air
Admits of no debate —
All that is named of Summer Days
Relinquished our Estate —
For what Department of Delight
As positive are we
As Limit of Dominion
Or Dams — of Ecstasy —
Il pungente atomo nell’Aria
Non ammette debate —
Tutto ciò che ha nome dai Giorni d’Summer
Ha abbandonato la nostra Tenuta —
Di quale Dipartimento di Delizia
Siamo noi altrettanto certi
Quanto del Limite del Dominio
O delle Dighe — dell’Estasi —
Like Brooms of Steel
The Snow and Wind
Had swept the Winter Street —
The House was hooked
The Sun sent out
Faint Deputies of Heat —
Where rode the Bird
The Silence tied
His ample — plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug
Was all the one that played.
Come Scope d’Acciaio
La Neve e il Vento
Avevano spazzato la Strada d’Inverno —
La Casa era sprangata
Il Sole inviava
Fievoli Delegati di Calore —
Dove cavalcava l’Uccello
Il Silenzio legò
Il suo ampio — arrancante Destriero
La Mela nella Cantina al riparo
Era la sola che giocava.
September’s Baccalaureate
A combination is
Of Crickets — Crows — and Retrospects
And a dissembling Breeze
That hints without assuming —
An Innuendo sear
That makes the Heart put up its Fun
And turn Philosopher.
Il Baccalaureato di Settembre
Una combinazione è
Di Grilli — Corvi — e Retrospetti
E una Brezza dissimulatrice
Che allude senza presumere —
Un’Insinuazione riarsa
Che fa al Cuore riporre il suo Svago
E volgersi Filosofo.
Summer has two Beginnings —
Beginning once in June —
Beginning in October
Affectingly again —
Without, perhaps, the Riot
But graphicker for Grace —
As finer is a going
Than a remaining Face —
Departing then — forever —
Forever — until May —
Forever is deciduous
Except to those who die —
L’Estate ha due Inizi —
Iniziando una volta in Giugno —
Iniziando in Ottobre
Toccantemente ancora —
Senza, forse, il Tripudio
Ma più vivida per Grazia —
Come più fine è un andarsene
Che un Volto che rimane —
Partendo allora — per sempre —
Per sempre — fino a Maggio —
Per sempre è deciduo
Tranne per quelli che muoiono —
The Gentian has a parched Corolla —
Like azure dried
’Tis Nature’s buoyant juices
Beatified —
Without a vaunt or sheen
As casual as Rain
And as benign —
When most is part — it comes —
Nor isolate it seems
Its Bond its Friend —
To fill its Fringed career
And aid an aged Year
Abundant end —
Its lot — were it forgot —
This Truth endear —
Fidelity is gain
Creation is o’er —
La Genziana ha una Corolla riarsa —
Come azzurro essiccato
Sono i succhi vivaci della Natura
Beatificati —
Senza vanto né lustro
Casuale come Pioggia
E altrettanto benigna —
Quando i più sono partiti — essa viene —
Né isolata sembra
Il suo Vincolo il suo Amico —
A compiere la sua carriera Frangiata
E aiutare d’un Anno annoso
L’abbondante fine —
La sua sorte — fosse dimenticata —
Questa Verità renda cara —
Fedeltà è guadagno
La Creazione è finita —
Their Barricade against the Sky
The martial Trees withdraw
And with a Flag at every turn
Their Armies are no more.
What Russet Halts in Nature’s March
They indicate or cause
An inference of Mexico
Effaces the Surmise —
Recurrent to the After Mind
That Massacre of Air —
The Wound that was not Wound nor Scar
But Holidays of War
La loro Barricata contro il Cielo
Gli Alberi marziali ritirano
E con una Bandiera a ogni svolta
I loro Eserciti non sono più.
Quali Rossicce Soste nella Marcia della Natura
Essi indichino o causino
Un’inferenza di Messico
Cancella la Congettura —
Ricorrente alla Mente di Poi
Quel Massacro d’Aria —
La Ferita che non fu Ferita né Cicatrice
Ma Feste di Guerra
Glass was the Street — in tinsel Peril
Tree and Traveller stood —
Filled was the Air with merry venture
Hearty with Boys the Road —
Shot the lithe Sleds like shod vibrations
Emphasized and gone
It is the Past’s supreme italic
Makes this Present mean —
Vetro era la Strada — in Periglio di lustrini
Albero e Viandante stavano —
Colma era l’Aria di allegra ventura
Festosa di Ragazzi la Strada —
Guizzavano le agili Slitte come vibrazioni ferrate
Accentuate e svanite
È il corsivo supremo del Passato
Che fa meschino questo Presente —
The Jay his Castanet has struck
Put on your muff for Winter
The Tippet that ignores his voice
Is impudent to nature
Of Swarthy Days he is the close
His Lotus is a chestnut
The Cricket drops a sable line
No more from yours at present
La Ghiandaia ha battuto la sua Nacchera
Metti il tuo manicotto per l’Inverno
La Stola che ignora la sua voce
È impudente verso la natura
Dei Giorni Bruni egli è la chiusa
Il suo Loto è una castagna
Il Grillo cala una riga di zibellino
Nient’altro dal vostro al momento
‘Twas here my summer paused
What ripeness after then
To other scene or other soul
My sentence had begun.
To winter to remove
With winter to abide
Go manacle your icicle
Against your Tropic Bride.
Fu qui che la mia estate si fermò
Quale maturità dopo di allora
Verso altra scena o altra anima
La mia sentenza era iniziata.
All’inverno trasferirsi
Con l’inverno dimorare
Va’ ad ammanettare il tuo ghiacciolo
Contro la tua Sposa Tropicale.
Were natural mortal lady
Who had so little time
To pack her trunk and order
The great exchange of clime —
How rapid, how momentous —
What exigencies were —
But nature will be ready
And have an hour to spare.
To make some trifle fairer
That was too fair before —
Enchanting by remaining,
And by departure more.
Fosse naturale dama mortale
Che avesse così poco tempo
Per fare il baule e disporre
Il gran cambio di clima —
Che rapidità, che gravità —
Quali urgenze sarebbero —
Ma la natura sarà pronta
E avrà un’ora d’avanzo.
Per fare più bello qualche nonnulla
Che era già troppo bello —
Incantevole nel restare,
E nel partire ancor di più.
DEAR AUSTIN.—I’ve been trying to think this morning how many weeks it was since you went away—I fail in calculations; it seems so long to me since you went back to school that I set down days for years, and weeks for a score of years—not reckoning time by minutes, I don’t know what to think of such great discrepancies between the actual hours and those which “seem to be.” It may seem long to you since you returned to Boston—how I wish you would stay and never go back again. Everything is so still here, and the clouds are cold and gray—I think it will rain soon. Oh, I am so lonely! … You had a windy evening going back to Boston, and we thought of you many times and hoped you would not be cold. Our fire burned so cheerfully I couldn’t help thinking of how many were here, and how many were away, and I wished so many times during that long evening that the door would open and you come walking in. Home is a holy thing,—nothing of doubt or distrust can enter its blessed portals. I feel it more and more as the great world goes on, and one and another forsake in whom you place your trust, here seems indeed to be a bit of Eden which not the sin of any can utterly destroy,-—smaller it is indeed, and it may be less fair, but fairer it is and brighter than all the world beside.
I hope this year in Boston will not impair your health, and I hope you will be as happy as you used to. be before. I don’t wonder it makes you sober to leave this blessed air —if it were in my power I would on every morning transmit its purest breaths fragrant and cool to you. How I wish you could have it—a thousand little winds waft it to me this morning, fragrant with forest leaves and bright autumnal berries. I would be willing to give you my portion for to-day, and take the salt sea’s breath in its bright, bounding stead… .
… The breakfast is so warm, and pussy is here a-singing, and the tea-kettle sings too, as if to see which was loudest, and I am so afraid lest kitty should be beaten—yet a shadow falls upon my morning picture—where is the youth so bold, the bravest of our fold—a seat is empty here—spectres sit in your chair, and now and then nudge father with their long, bony elbows. I wish you were here, dear Austin; the dust falls on the bureau in your deserted room, and gay, frivolous spiders spin away in the corners. I don’t go there after dark whenever I can help it, for the twilight seems to pause there, and I am half afraid; and if ever I have to go, I hurry with all my might, and never look behind me, for I know who I should see.
Before next Tuesday—oh, before the coming stage, will I not brighten and brush it, and open the long-closed blinds, and with a sweeping broom will I not bring each spider down from its home so high, and tell it it may come back again when master has gone—and oh, I will bid it to be a tardy spider, to tarry on the way; and I will think my eye is fuller than sometimes, though why I cannot tell, when it shall rap on the window and come to live again. I am so happy when I know how soon you are coming that I put away my sewing and go out in the yard to think. I have tried to delay the frosts, I have coaxed the fading flowers, I thought I could detain a few of the crimson leaves until you had smiled upon them; but their companions call them, and they cannot stay away.
You will find the blue hills, Austin, with the autumnal shadows silently sleeping on them, and there will be a glory lingering round the day, so you’ll know autumn has been here; and the setting sun will tell you, if you don’t get home till evening… . I thank you for such a long letter, and yet if I might choose, the next should be a longer. I think a letter just about three days long would make me happier than any other kind of one, if you please,—dated at Boston, but thanks be to our Father you may conclude it here. Everything has changed since my other letter,—the doors are shut this morning, and all the kitchen wall is covered with chilly flies who are trying to warm themselves, —poor things, they do not understand that there are no summer mornings remaining to them and me, and they have a bewildered air which is really very droll, didn’t one feel sorry for them. You would say ‘twas a gloomy morning if you were sitting here,—the frost has been severe, and the few lingering leaves seem anxious to be going, and wrap their faded cloaks more closely about them as if to shield them from the chilly northeast wind. The earth looks like some poor old lady who by dint of pains has bloomed e’en till now, yet in a forgetful moment a few silver hairs from out her cap come stealing, and she tucks them back so hastily and thinks nobody sees. The cows are going to pasture, and little boys with their hands in their pockets are whistling to try to keep warm. Don’t think that the sky will frown so the day when you come home! She will smile and look happy, and be full of sunshine then, and even should she frown upon her child returning, there is another sky, ever serene and fair, and there is another sunshine, though it be darkness there; never mind faded forests, Austin, never mind silent fields—here is a little forest, whose leaf is ever green; here is a brighter garden, where not a frost has been; in its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum; prithee, my brother, into my garden come!
There are two ripenings, one of sight, Whose forces spheric wind, Until the velvet product Drops spicy to the ground. A homelier maturing, A process in the burr That teeth of frosts alone disclose On far October air.
On the occasion of another friend’s departure from Amherst after a visit, Emily’s good-by was embodied in the following lines, accompanied by an oleander blossom tied with black ribbon:
We’ll pass without a parting, So to spare Certificate of absence, Deeming where I left her I could find her If I tried. This way I keep from missing Those who died.
P. S. The bobolinks have gone.
DEAR MR. BOWLES,—Vinnie is trading with a tin peddler —buying water-pots for me to sprinkle geraniums with when you get home next winter, and she has gone to the war.
Summer isn’t so long as it was, when we stood looking at it before you went away; and when I finish August, we’ll hop the autumn very soon, and then ‘twill be yourself.
I don’t know how many will be glad to see you,—because I never saw your whole friends, but I have heard that in large cities noted persons chose you—though how glad those I know will be, is easier told.
I tell you, Mr. Bowles, it is a suffering to have a sea —no care how blue—between your soul and you.
The hills you used to love when you were in Northampton, miss their old lover, could they speak; and the puzzled look deepens in Carlo’s forehead as the days go by and you never come.
I’ve learned to read the steamer place in newspapers now. It’s ‘most like shaking hands with you, or more like your ringing at the door.
We reckon your coming by the fruit. When the grape gets by, and the pippin and the chestnut—when the days are a little short by the clock, and a little long by the want —when the sky has new red gowns, and a purple bonnet—then we say you will come. I am glad that kind of time goes by.
It is easier to look behind at a pain, than to see it coming.
A soldier called, a morning ago, and asked for a nosegay to take to battle. I suppose he thought we kept an aquarium.
How sweet it must be to one to come home, whose home is in so many houses, and every heart a “best room.” I mean you, Mr. Bowles… . Have not the clovers names to the bees?
While asters On the hill Their everlasting fashions set, And covenant gentians frill!
… I should be wild with joy to see my little lovers. The writing them is not so sweet as their two faces that seem so small way off, and yet have been two weeks from me—two wishful, wandering weeks. Now, I begin to doubt if they ever came.
I bid the stiff “good-night” and the square “good-morning” to the lingering guest, I finish mamma’s sack, all but the overcasting—that, fatal sack, you recollect. I pick up tufts of mignonette, and sweet alyssum for winter, dim as winter seems these red, and gold, and ribbon days.
I am sure I feel as Noah did, docile, but somewhat sceptic, under the satinet.
No frost at our house yet. Thermometer frost, I mean. Mother had a new tooth Saturday. You know Dr. S——had promised her one for a long time. “Teething” didn’t agree with her, and she kept her bed, Sunday, with a face that would take a premium at any cattle-show in the land. Came to town next morning with slightly reduced features, but no eye on the left side. Doubtless we are “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and occasionally grotesquely.
L——goes to Sunderland, Wednesday, for a minute or two; leaves here at half-past six—what a fitting hour—and will breakfast the night before; such a smart atmosphere! The trees stand right up straight when they hear her boots, and will bear crockery wares instead of fruit, I fear. She hasn’t starched the geraniums yet, but will have ample time, unless she leaves before April. Emily is very mean, and her children in dark mustn’t remember what she says about damsel.
Grateful for little notes, and shall ask for longer when my birds locate. Would it were here. Three sisters are prettier than one… . Tabby is a continual shrine, and her jaunty ribbons put me in mind of fingers far out at sea. F——‘s admonition made me laugh and cry too. In the hugest haste, and the engine waiting.
And the old garden still overflows with annual fragrance and color. Its armies of many-hued hyacinths run riot in the spring sunshine, while crocuses and daffodils peer above the fresh grass under the apple-trees; a large magnolia holds its pink cups toward the blue sky, and scarlet hawthorn lights a greenly dusky corner.
And then the roses, and the hedges of sweet-peas; the masses of nasturtiums, and the stately procession of hollyhocks, in happy association with huge bushes of lemon verbena! Still later comes the autumn glory, with salvia and brilliant zinnias and marigolds and clustering chrysawcthe mums, until “ranks of seeds their witness bear,” and November folds her brown mantle over sleeping flowers.
This sweet garden, with its whiffs of long ago, needs only borders of box and a sun-dial to be the ideally imagined pleasure-spot of vanished generations. And Emily seems its presiding genius; it is instinct with her presence still, though even before her death years had passed since her footsteps pressed its paths, or her fingers gathered its riches.
In different mood from the cheerful letters to Mr. Bowles are these more sombre ones to Mr. Clark. Begun by association through the death of a mutual friend, they continued to be tinged with the sadness of other and following deaths, until his own, when letters to his brother took their place until almost her own flitting.
Aunt Katie and the sultans have left the garden now, and parting with my own recalls their sweet companionship.
Mine were not, I think, as exuberant as in other years, —perhaps the Pelham water shocked their stately tastes,—but cherished avariciously because less numerous. I trust your garden was willing to die. I do not think that mine was —it perished with beautiful reluctance, like an evening star.
I hope you were well since we knew of you, and as happy as sorrow would allow.
There are sweets of pathos, when sweets of mirth have passed away.
Mother has had a weary cold, and suffers much from neuralgia since the changing airs, though I trust is no feebler than when you were here. She has her little pleasures as the patient have—the voices of friends, and devotion of home.
The ravens must “cry,” to be ministered to; she need only sigh… . Perhaps it is quite the home it was when you last beheld it. I hope your few are safe, and your flowers encouraging.
News of your sultans and yourself would be equally lovely, when you feel inclined. Blossoms have their leisures.