To Mr. C. H. Clark

My Wheel is in the dark.
I cannot see a spoke -
Yet know it’s dripping feet
Go round and round.

My foot is on the tide -
An unfrequented road
Yet have all roads
A “Clearing” at the end.

Some have resigned the Loom -
Some - in the busy tomb
Find quaint employ.
Some with new - stately feet
Pass royal thro’ the gate
Flinging the problem back, at you and I.

La mia Ruota è nel buio.
Non vedo un solo raggio -
Eppure so che i suoi piedi grondanti
Girano e rigirano.

Il mio piede è sulla marea -
Una strada infrequentata -
Eppure hanno tutte le strade
Una “Radura” alla fine.

Alcuni hanno lasciato il Telaio -
Alcuni - nella tomba operosa
Trovano strano impiego.
Alcuni con nuovi - maestosi piedi
Passano regali per la porta
Rigettando il problema, a te e a me.

Before the ice is in the pools —
Before the skaters go,
Or any check at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow —

Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!

What we touch the hems of
On a summer’s day —
What is only walking
Just a bridge away —

That which sings so — speaks so —
When there’s no one here —
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?

Prima che il ghiaccio sia negli stagni —
Prima che vadano i pattinatori,
O qualche guancia al calar della sera
Sia offuscata dalla neve —

Prima che i campi abbiano finito,
Prima del Christmas e del suo albero,
Wonder su meraviglia
Arriverà fino a me!

Ciò di cui tocchiamo gli orli
In un giorno d’estate —
Ciò che sta soltanto camminando
A un ponte appena da qui —

Quello che canta così — parla così —
Quando non c’è nessuno qui —
La veste in cui piansi
Mi risponderà da indossare?

Like her the Saints retire,
In their Chapeaux of fire,
Martial as she!

Like her the Evenings steal
Purple and Cochineal
After the Day!

“Departed” — both — they say!
i.e. gathered away,
Not found,

Argues the Aster still —
Reasons the Daffodil
Profound!

Come lei si ritirano i Santi,
Nei loro Chapeaux di fuoco,
Marziali come lei!

Come lei le Sere rubano
Porpora e Cocciniglia
Dietro al Giorno!

“Dipartite” — entrambe — dicono!
ossia raccolte via,
Non trovate,

Argomenta ancora l’Astro —
Ragiona il Narciso
Profondo!

Going to Heaven!
I don’t know when —
Pray do not ask me how!
Indeed I’m too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to Heaven!
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the Shepherd’s arm!

Perhaps you’re going too!
Who knows?
If you should get there first
Save just a little space for me
Close to the two I lost —
The smallest “Robe” will fit me
And just a bit of “Crown” —
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home —

I’m glad I don’t believe it
For it would stop my breath —
And I’d like to look a little more
At such a curious Earth!
I’m glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the might Autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.

Vado in Cielo!
Non so quando —
Vi prego non chiedetemi come!
Davvero sono troppo stupita
Per pensare a rispondervi!
Vado in Cielo!
Come suona vago!
Eppure si compirà
Certo come i greggi vanno a casa di notte
Al braccio del Pastore!

Forse ci andate anche voi!
Chissà?
Se doveste arrivare per primi
Serbate solo un piccolo spazio per me
Vicino ai due che ho perduto —
La più piccola “Veste” mi andrà bene
E solo un poco di “Corona” —
Perché sapete che non badiamo all’abito
Quando andiamo a casa —

Sono lieta di non crederci
Perché mi fermerebbe il respiro —
E vorrei guardare ancora un poco
Una Terra così curiosa!
Sono lieta che ci abbiano creduto
Loro che non ho più trovato
Dal possente pomeriggio d’Autunno
In cui li lasciai nella terra.

Some things that fly there be —
Birds — Hours — the Bumblebee —
Of these no Elegy.

Some things that stay there be —
Grief — Hills — Eternity —
Nor this behooveth me.

There are that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the Riddle lies!

Alcune cose che volano vi sono —
Uccelli — Ore — il Bombo —
Di queste nessuna Elegia.

Alcune cose che restano vi sono —
Dolore — Colline — Eternità —
Né questo a me si addice.

Vi sono che, riposando, sorgono.
Posso io spiegare i cieli?
Come quieto giace l’Enigma!

To hang our head — ostensibly —
And subsequent, to find
That such was not the posture
Of our immortal mind —

Affords the sly presumption
That in so dense a fuzz —
You — too — take Cobweb attitudes
Upon a plane of Gauze!

Chinare il capo — ostensibilmente —
E in seguito, scoprire
Che tale non era la postura
Della nostra mente immortale —

Concede la sorniona presunzione
Che in così densa lanugine —
Tu — pure — assuma pose di Ragnatela
Sopra un piano di Garza!

Cocoon above! Cocoon below!
Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so
What all the world suspect?
An hour, and gay on every tree
Your secret, perched in ecstasy
Defies imprisonment!

An hour in Chrysalis to pass,
Then gay above receding grass
A Butterfly to go!
A moment to interrogate,
Then wiser than a “Surrogate,“
The Universe to know!

Bozzolo in alto! Bozzolo in basso!
Furtivo Bozzolo, perché nascondi così
Ciò che tutto il mondo sospetta?
Un’ora, e gaio su ogni albero
Il tuo segreto, appollaiato in estasi
Sfida la prigionia!

Un’ora in Crisalide da passare,
Poi gaio sopra l’erba che recede
Farfalla andare!
Un momento per interrogare,
Poi più saggio di un “Surrogato,“
L’Universo conoscere!

She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand —
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it —
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet —
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street —

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers —
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy — immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?

Lo sopportò finché le semplici vene
Tracciarono azzurro sulla sua mano —
Finché imploranti, intorno ai suoi quieti occhi
Stanno i Pastelli purpurei.

Finché le Giunchiglie vennero e andarono
Non so dirne la somma,
E allora cessò di sopportarlo —
E coi Santi sedette.

Non più la sua paziente figura
Da incontrare dolce al crepuscolo —
Non più la sua timida cuffia
Per la via del villaggio —

Ma Corone invece, e Cortigiani —
E nel mezzo così bella,
Di chi se non suo il timido — immortale volto
Di colei che qui andiamo sussurrando?

Just lost, when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with Eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!

Therefore, as One returned, I feel
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some Sailor, skirting foreign shores —
Some pale Reporter, from the awful doors
Before the Seal!

Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By Ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by Eye —

Next time, to tarry,
While the Ages steal —
Slow tramp the Centuries,
And the Cycles wheel!

Appena perduta, quando ero salva!
Appena sentito il mondo passare!
Appena cinta per l’assalto con l’Eternità,
Quando il respiro rifluì,
E dall’altra riva
Udii ritrarsi la marea delusa!

Perciò, come Una tornata, sento
Strani segreti del confine da narrare!
Qualche Marinaio, che rasenta lidi stranieri —
Qualche pallido Cronista, dalle porte tremende
Prima del Sigillo!

La prossima volta, restare!
La prossima volta, vedere le cose
Da Orecchio inaudite,
Non scrutate da Occhio —

La prossima volta, indugiare,
Mentre le Ere scivolano —
Lento marciano i Secoli,
E i Cicli ruotano!

The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho’ Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!

The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.

La Lampada arde sicura — dentro —
Benché Servi — forniscano l’Olio —
Non importa all’operoso Stoppino —
Nella sua fosforica fatica!

Lo Schiavo — dimentica — di colmare —
La Lampada — arde dorata — ancora —
Ignara che l’olio è finito —
Come che lo Schiavo — è andato.

If your Nerve, deny you —
Go above your Nerve —
He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve —

That’s a steady posture —
Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms —
Best Giant made —

If your Soul seesaw —
Lift the Flesh door —
The Poltroon wants Oxygen —
Nothing more —

Se il tuo Nervo, ti nega —
Va’ oltre il tuo Nervo —
Può appoggiarsi alla Tomba,
Se teme di deviare —

È una postura salda —
Mai alcun cedimento
Tenuto da quelle braccia d’Ottone —
Miglior Gigante mai fatto —

Se la tua Anima vacilla —
Solleva la porta della Carne —
Il Poltrone vuole Ossigeno —
Nient’altro —

The Soul’s Superior instants
Occur to Her — alone —
When friend — and Earth’s occasion
Have infinite withdrawn —

Or She — Herself — ascended
To too remote a Height
For lower Recognition
Than Her Omnipotent —

This Mortal Abolition
Is seldom — but as fair
As Apparition — subject
To Autocratic Air —

Eternity’s disclosure
To favorites — a few —
Of the Colossal substance
Of Immortality

Gli istanti Superiori dell’Anima
Le accadono — sola —
Quando l’amico — e l’occasione della Terra
Si sono infinitamente ritirati —

O Lei — Ella stessa — ascesa
A un’Altezza troppo remota
Per Riconoscimento più basso
Del suo Onnipotente —

Questa Abolizione Mortale
È rara — ma bella
Come Apparizione — soggetta
Ad Aria Autocratica —

Rivelazione dell’Eternità
A favoriti — pochi —
Della Colossale sostanza
Dell’Immortalità

The One who could repeat the Summer day —
Were greater than itself — though He
Minutest of Mankind should be —

And He — could reproduce the Sun —
At period of going down —
The Lingering — and the Stain — I mean —

When Orient have been outgrown —
And Occident — become Unknown —
His Name — remain —

Colui che potesse ripetere il giorno d’Estate —
Sarebbe più grande di esso — quand’anche Egli
Fosse il più Minuto del Genere umano —

Ed Egli — potesse riprodurre il Sole —
Nel momento del suo calare —
L’Indugiare — e la Macchia — intendo —

Quando l’Oriente sarà oltrepassato —
E l’Occidente — divenuto Ignoto —
Il suo Nome — resterà —

We play at Paste —
Till qualified, for Pearl —
Then, drop the Paste —
And deem ourself a fool —

The Shapes — though — were similar —
And our new Hands
Learned Gem-Tactics —
Practicing Sands —

Giochiamo a Pasta di vetro —
Finché degni, di Perla —
Poi, lasciamo la Pasta —
E ci stimiamo folli —

Le Forme — però — erano simili —
E le nostre nuove Mani
Appresero Tattiche di Gemma —
Esercitandosi a Sabbie —

All the letters I can write
Are not fair as this —
Syllables of Velvet —
Sentences of Plush,
Depths of Ruby, undrained,
Hid, Lip, for Thee —
Play it were a Humming Bird —
And just sipped — me —

Tutte le lettere che so scrivere
Non sono belle come questa —
Sillabe di Velluto —
Frasi di Felpa,
Profondità di Rubino, mai attinte,
Nascoste, Labbro, per Te —
Fingi che fosse un Colibrì —
E che sorseggiasse appena — me —

Not probable — The barest Chance —
A smile too few — a word too much
And far from Heaven as the Rest —
The Soul so close on Paradise —

What if the Bird from journey far —
Confused by Sweets — as Mortals — are —
Forget the secret of His wing
And perish — but a Bough between —
Oh, Groping feet —
Oh Phantom Queen!

Non probabile — la più esile Possibilità —
Un sorriso di meno — una parola di troppo
E lontana dal Cielo come il Resto —
L’Anima così prossima al Paradiso —

E se l’Uccello da viaggio lontano —
Confuso dai Dolci — come i Mortali — sono —
Scordasse il segreto della Sua ala
E perisse — solo un Ramo di mezzo —
Oh, piedi Brancolanti —
Oh Spettrale Regina!

Although I put away his life —
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand

That sowed the flower, he preferred —
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path —
Or played his chosen tune —

On Lute the least — the latest —
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go —

The foot to bear his errand —
A little Boot I know —
Would leap abroad like Antelope —
With just the grant to do —

His weariest Commandment —
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” —
Or skip to Flutes —
Or all Day, chase the Bee —

Your Servant, Sir, will weary —
The Surgeon, will not come —
The World, will have its own — to do —
The Dust, will vex your Fame —

383

The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay —

That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me —
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.

Benché io riponessi la sua vita —
Ornamento troppo grande
Perché Fronte bassa come la mia lo porti,
Questa avrebbe potuto essere la Mano

Che seminò il fiore, da lui preferito —
O lenì un’umile pena,
O spinse il sasso via dal suo cammino —
O suonò la sua melodia prediletta —

Sul Liuto più umile — l’ultimo —
Ma solo il suo Orecchio poteva sapere
Che qualunque cosa lo dilettasse,
Io non l’avrei mai lasciata andare —

Il piede a portare la sua commissione —
Un piccolo Stivale che conosco —
Balzerebbe via come Antilope —
Col solo permesso di compiere —

Il suo più stanco Comandamento —
Più dolce da obbedire,
Che “Nascondino” —
O saltellare ai Flauti —
O tutto il Giorno, inseguire l’Ape —

Il vostro Servo, Signore, si stancherà —
Il Chirurgo, non verrà —
Il Mondo, avrà il suo — da fare —
La Polvere, vesserà la vostra Fama —

383

Il Freddo forzerà la vostra porta più serrata
Un qualche Giorno di Febbraio,
Ma dite che il mio grembiule porti i rami
A far gaio il vostro Cottage —

Ch’io possa portare quella promessa
In Paradiso, con me —
Per insegnare agli Angeli l’avarizia,
Che voi, Signore, insegnaste primo — a me.

A precious — mouldering pleasure — ‘tis —
To meet an Antique Book —
In just the Dress his Century wore —
A privilege — I think —

His venerable Hand to take —
And warming in our own —
A passage back — or two — to make —
To Times when he — was young —

His quaint opinions — to inspect —
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind —
The Literature of Man —

What interested Scholars — most —
What Competitions ran —
When Plato — was a Certainty —
And Sophocles — a Man —

When Sappho — was a living Girl —
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified —
Facts Centuries before

He traverses — familiar —
As One should come to Town —
And tell you all your Dreams — were true —
He lived — where Dreams were born —

His presence is Enchantment —
389

You beg him not to go —
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize — just so —

Un prezioso — ammuffito piacere — è —
Incontrare un Libro Antico —
Nell’Abito stesso che il suo Secolo portava —
Un privilegio — io penso —

Prendere la sua Mano venerabile —
E scaldandola nella nostra —
Fare un passo indietro — o due —
Ai Tempi in cui lui — era giovane —

Le sue curiose opinioni — ispezionare —
Il suo pensiero accertare
Su Temi che toccano la nostra mente comune —
La Letteratura dell’Uomo —

Cosa interessava di più — gli Studiosi —
Quali Competizioni correvano —
Quando Platone — era una Certezza —
E Sofocle — un Uomo —

Quando Saffo — era Fanciulla viva —
E Beatrice portava
La Veste che Dante — deificò —
Fatti di Secoli prima

Egli attraversa — familiare —
Come Uno che venisse in Città —
E ti dicesse che tutti i tuoi Sogni — eran veri —
Lui visse — dove i Sogni nacquero —

La sua presenza è Incantesimo —
389

Lo supplichi di non andare —
Vecchi Volumi scuotono le Teste di Pergamena
E tentano — proprio così —

No Rack can torture me —
My Soul — at Liberty —
Behind this mortal Bone
There knits a bolder One —

You cannot prick with saw —
Nor pierce with Scimitar —
Two Bodies — therefore be —
Bind One — The Other fly —

The Eagle of his Nest
No easier divest —
And gain the Sky
Than mayest Thou —

Except Thyself may be
Thine Enemy —
Captivity is Consciousness —
So’s Liberty.

Nessun Cavalletto può torturarmi —
L’Anima mia — in Libertà —
Dietro quest’Osso mortale
Se ne intesse Uno più ardito —

Non puoi pungere con la sega —
Né trafiggere con la Scimitarra —
Due Corpi — dunque sono —
Lega l’Uno — L’Altro vola —

L’Aquila del suo Nido
Non più facilmente si spoglia —
E guadagna il Cielo
Di quanto Tu possa —

Se non Tu stesso sia
Il Tuo Nemico —
Prigionia è Coscienza —
Così la Libertà.

When Diamonds are a Legend,
And Diadems — a Tale —
I Brooch and Earrings for Myself,
Do sow, and Raise for sale —

And tho’ I’m scarce accounted,
My Art, a Summer Day — had Patrons —
Once — it was a Queen —
And once — a Butterfly —

Quando i Diamanti sono Leggenda,
E i Diademi — una Favola —
Io Spilla e Orecchini per Me stessa,
Semino, e Coltivo per la vendita —

E benché sia tenuta in poco conto,
La mia Arte, un Giorno d’Estate — ebbe Mecenati —
Una volta — fu una Regina —
E una volta — una Farfalla —

Not in this World to see his face —
Sounds long — until I read the place
Where this — is said to be
But just the Primer — to a life —
Unopened — rare — Upon the Shelf —
Clasped yet — to Him — and Me —

And yet — My Primer suits me so
I would not choose — a Book to know
Than that — be sweeter wise —
Might some one else — so learned — be —
And leave me — just my A — B — C —
Himself — could have the Skies —

Non in questo Mondo vedere il suo volto —
Suona lungo — finché non leggo il passo
Dove questo — si dice sia
Solo il Sillabario — di una vita —
Non aperta — rara — Sullo Scaffale —
Stretta ancora — a Lui — e a Me —

Eppure — il mio Sillabario mi si addice tanto
Che non sceglierei — di conoscere un Libro
Che di quello — fosse più dolcemente saggio —
Possa qualcun altro — così dotto — essere —
E lasciare a me — solo il mio A — B — C —
Lui — potrebbe avere i Cieli —

Do People moulder equally,
They bury, in the Grave?
I do believe a Species
As positively live

As I, who testify it
Deny that I — am dead —
And fill my Lungs, for Witness —
From Tanks — above my Head —

I say to you, said Jesus —
That there be standing here —
A Sort, that shall not taste of Death —
If Jesus was sincere —

I need no further Argue —
That statement of the Lord
Is not a controvertible —
He told me, Death was dead —

Le Persone marciscono ugualmente,
Quelle che seppelliscono, nella Tomba?
Io credo che una Specie
Viva altrettanto certamente

Di me, che lo testimonio
E nego che io — sia morta —
E riempio i Polmoni, a Prova —
Da Serbatoi — sopra il mio Capo —

Io vi dico, disse Gesù —
Che vi sono qui presenti —
Alcuni, che non gusteranno la Morte —
Se Gesù fu sincero —

Non mi serve altro Argomento —
Quella parola del Signore
Non è cosa controvertibile —
Mi disse, la Morte era morta —

This was a Poet — It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings —
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door —
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it — before —

Of Pictures, the Discloser —
The Poet — it is He —
Entitles Us — by Contrast —
To ceaseless Poverty —

Of portion — so unconscious —
The Robbing — could not harm —
Himself — to Him — a Fortune —
Exterior — to Time —

Questo era un Poeta — È Ciò che
Distilla un senso stupefacente
Da Significati ordinari —
E un’Essenza così immensa

Dalla specie familiare
Perita presso la Porta —
Ci meravigliamo che non fummo Noi
A fermarla — prima —

Di Quadri, il Rivelatore —
Il Poeta — è Lui —
Ci autorizza — per Contrasto —
A incessante Povertà —

Di porzione — così inconsapevole —
La Rapina — non potrebbe nuocere —
Egli stesso — per Sé — una Fortuna —
Esteriore — al Tempo —

A Wife — at daybreak I shall be —
Sunrise — Hast thou a Flag for me?
At Midnight, I am but a Maid,
How short it takes to make a Bride —
Then — Midnight, I have passed from thee
Unto the East, and Victory —

Midnight — Good Night! I hear them call,
The Angels bustle in the Hall —
Softly my Future climbs the Stair,
I fumble at my Childhood’s prayer
So soon to be a Child no more —
Eternity, I’m coming — Sire,
Savior — I’ve seen the face — before!

Sposa — all’alba io sarò —
Aurora — hai tu una Bandiera per me?
A Mezzanotte, non sono che Fanciulla,
Che poco ci vuole a fare una Sposa —
Poi — Mezzanotte, da te sono passata
All’Oriente, e alla Vittoria —

Mezzanotte — Buona Notte! Li sento chiamare,
Gli Angeli s’affaccendano nell’Atrio —
Piano il mio Futuro sale la Scala,
Incespico nella mia Infantile preghiera
Così presto non più Bimba —
Eternità, sto arrivando — Sire,
Salvatore — l’ho visto il volto — già!

I am alive — I guess —
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory —
And at my finger’s end —

The Carmine — tingles warm —
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth — it blurs it —
Physician’s — proof of Breath —

I am alive — because
I am not in a Room —
The Parlor — Commonly — it is —
So Visitors may come —

And lean — and view it sidewise —
And add “How cold — it grew” —
And “Was it conscious — when it stepped
In Immortality?”

I am alive — because
I do not own a House —
Entitled to myself — precise —
And fitting no one else —

And marked my Girlhood’s name —
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine — and not mistake —
And try another Key —

How good — to be alive!
494

How infinite — to be
Alive — two-fold — The Birth I had —
And this — besides, in — Thee!

Sono viva — suppongo —
I Rami sulla mia Mano
Son pieni di Convolvolo —
E in punta al mio dito —

Il Carminio — formicola caldo —
E se tengo un Vetro
Contro la mia Bocca — lo appanna —
Prova del Medico — del Respiro —

Sono viva — perché
Non sono in una Stanza —
Il Salotto — di Consueto — è —
Perché vengano i Visitatori —

E si chinino — a guardarlo di sbieco —
E aggiungano “Come freddo — si fece” —
E “Era cosciente — quando entrò
Nell’Immortalità?”

Sono viva — perché
Non possiedo una Casa —
Intestata a me stessa — precisa —
E adatta a nessun altro —

E segnata col nome della mia Fanciullezza —
Perché i Visitatori sappiano
Qual è la mia Porta — e non si sbaglino —
E provino un’altra Chiave —

Che bene — essere viva!
494

Che infinito — essere
Viva — due volte — La Nascita che ebbi —
E questa — in più, in — Te!

A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe —
And golden hang — while farther up —
The Maker’s Ladders stop —
And in the Orchard far below —
You hear a Being — drop —

A Wonderful — to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished —
Cool of eye, and critical of Work —
He shifts the stem — a little —
To give your Core — a look —

But solemnest — to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer — Every Sun
The Single — to some lives.

Cosa Solenne dentro l’Anima
Sentirsi maturare —
E pendere dorata — mentre più in alto —
Le Scale del Creatore si fermano —
E nel Frutteto molto più in basso —
Senti un Essere — cadere —

Meraviglioso — sentire il Sole
Ancora affaccendato sulla Guancia
Che credevi finita —
Freddo d’occhio, e critico dell’Opera —
Sposta il picciolo — un poco —
Per dare al tuo Nocciolo — uno sguardo —

Ma più solenne — sapere
Che la tua sorte nella Mietitura si fa
Un poco più vicina — Ogni Sole
L’Unico — per alcune vite.

While it is alive
Until Death touches it
While it and I lap one Air
Dwell in one Blood
Under one Sacrament
Show me Division can split or pare —

Love is like Life — merely longer
Love is like Death, during the Grave
Love is the Fellow of the Resurrection
Scooping up the Dust and chanting “Live”!

Finché è vivo
Finché la Morte non lo tocca
Finché esso ed io lambiamo un’unica Aria
Dimoriamo in un solo Sangue
Sotto un solo Sacramento
Mostratemi Divisione che possa scindere o mozzare —

L’Amore è come la Vita — solo più lungo
L’Amore è come la Morte, durante la Tomba
L’Amore è il Compagno della Resurrezione
Che raccoglie la Polvere cantando “Vivi”!

Those fair — fictitious People —
The Women — plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime —
The Men of Ivory —

Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas —
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake —
Can Anybody tell?

We trust — in places perfecter —
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture —
Our dizzy Estimate —

Remembering ourselves, we trust —
Yet Blesseder — than We —
Through Knowing — where We only hope —
Receiving — where we — pray —

Of Expectation — also —
Anticipating us
With transport, that would be a pain
Except for Holiness —

Esteeming us — as Exile —
Themself — admitted Home —
Through easy Miracle of Death —
The Way ourself, must come —

Quella bella — fittizia Gente —
Le Donne — strappate via
Dalla nostra Vita familiare —
Gli Uomini d’Avorio —

Quei Ragazzi e Ragazze, in Tela —
Che restano sul Muro
In Ricordo Eterno —
Può dirlo Qualcuno?

Confidiamo — in luoghi più perfetti —
Ereditando Delizia
Oltre la nostra fioca Congettura —
La nostra vertiginosa Stima —

Ricordando noi stessi, confidiamo —
Eppure più Beati — di Noi —
Sapendo — dove Noi solo speriamo —
Ricevendo — dove noi — preghiamo —

Anche — dell’Attesa —
Anticipandoci
Con un trasporto, che sarebbe pena
Se non fosse Santità —

Stimandoci — come Esilio —
Loro — ammessi a Casa —
Per facile Miracolo di Morte —
La Via che noi stessi, dovremo fare —

No Crowd that has occurred
Exhibit — I suppose
That General Attendance
That Resurrection — does —

Circumference be full —
The long restricted Grave
Assert her Vital Privilege —
The Dust — connect — and live —

On Atoms — features place —
All Multitudes that were
Efface in the Comparison —
As Suns — dissolve a star —

Solemnity — prevail —
Its Individual Doom
Possess each separate Consciousness —
August — Absorbed — Numb —

What Duplicate — exist —
What Parallel can be —
Of the Significance of This —
To Universe — and Me?

Nessuna Folla mai avvenuta
Esibisce — suppongo
Quella Generale Adunanza
Che la Resurrezione — raduna —

La Circonferenza sia piena —
La Tomba a lungo costretta
Affermi il suo Vitale Privilegio —
La Polvere — si unisca — e viva —

Sugli Atomi — si posino i lineamenti —
Tutte le Moltitudini che furono
Svaniscono al Confronto —
Come Soli — dissolvono una stella —

La Solennità — prevalga —
Il suo Individuale Destino
Possieda ogni distinta Coscienza —
Augusta — Assorta — Attonita —

Quale Duplicato — esiste —
Quale Parallelo può darsi —
Del Significato di Questo —
Per l’Universo — e per Me?

Departed to the judgment,
A mighty afternoon ;
Great clouds like ushers leaning,
Creation looking on.

The flesh surrendered, cancelled,
The bodiless begun ;
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse
And leave the soul alone.

Partita al giudizio,
Un possente pomeriggio ;
Grandi nubi chine come uscieri,
La creazione a guardare.

La carne arresa, cancellata,
L’incorporeo iniziato ;
Due mondi, come platee, si disperdono
E lasciano l’anima sola.

The Martyr Poets — did not tell —
But wrought their Pang in syllable —
That when their mortal name be numb —
Their mortal fate — encourage Some —

The Martyr Painters — never spoke —
Bequeathing — rather — to their Work —
That when their conscious fingers cease —
Some seek in Art — the Art of Peace —

I Poeti Martiri — non dissero —
Ma forgiarono in sillaba il loro Spasimo —
Ché quando il loro nome mortale sia muto —
La loro sorte mortale — incoraggi Alcuni —

I Pittori Martiri — mai parlarono —
Legando — piuttosto — alla loro Opera —
Ché quando le loro dita consapevoli cessano —
Alcuni cerchino nell’Arte — l’Arte della Pace —

The Body grows without —
The more convenient way —
That if the Spirit — like to hide
Its Temple stands, alway,

Ajar — secure — inviting —
It never did betray
The Soul that asked its shelter
In solemn honesty

Il Corpo cresce al di fuori —
Il modo più conveniente —
Perché se lo Spirito — voglia celarsi
Il suo Tempio sta, per sempre,

Socchiuso — sicuro — invitante —
Mai esso tradì
L’Anima che chiese il suo riparo
In solenne onestà

The Battle fought between the Soul
And No Man — is the One
Of all the Battles prevalent —
By far the Greater One —

No News of it is had abroad —
Its Bodiless Campaign
Establishes, and terminates —
Invisible — Unknown —

Nor History — record it —
As Legions of a Night
The Sunrise scatters — These endure —
Enact — and terminate —

La Battaglia combattuta tra l’Anima
E Nessuno — è quella
Fra tutte le Battaglie in corso —
Di gran lunga la Maggiore —

Nessuna Notizia ne giunge fuori —
La sua Campagna Incorporea
Si stabilisce, e termina —
Invisibile — Ignota —

Né la Storia — la registra —
Come Legioni d’una Notte
Che l’Alba disperde — Queste durano —
Agiscono — e terminano —

A still — Volcano — Life —
That flickered in the night —
When it was dark enough to do
Without erasing sight —

A quiet — Earthquake Style —
Too subtle to suspect
By natures this side Naples —
The North cannot detect

The Solemn — Torrid — Symbol —
The lips that never lie —
Whose hissing Corals part — and shut —
And Cities — ooze away —

Una quieta — Vita — di Vulcano —
Che guizzava nella notte —
Quando era buio abbastanza per agire
Senza cancellare la vista —

Un placido — Stile di Terremoto —
Troppo sottile per sospettarlo
Alle nature al di qua di Napoli —
Il Nord non sa scorgere

Il Solenne — Torrido — Simbolo —
Le labbra che mai mentono —
I cui Coralli sibilanti si aprono — e serrano —
E le Città — colano via —

Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
Not Death — for who is He?
The Porter of my Father’s Lodge
As much abasheth me!

Of Life? ‘Twere odd I fear [a] thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or two existences —
As Deity decree —

Of Resurrection? Is the East
Afraid to trust the Morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my Crown!

Paura! Di chi ho paura?
Non della Morte — perché chi è Lui?
Il Portiere della Loggia di mio Padre
altrettanto mi sgomenta!

Della Vita? Strano sarebbe ch’io tema [una] cosa
che mi comprende
in una o due esistenze —
come la Deità decreta —

Della Resurrezione? È forse l’Oriente
timoroso d’affidare al Mattino
la sua fronte fastidiosa?
Tanto varrebbe accusare la mia Corona!

Our journey had advanced —
Our feet were almost come
To that odd Fork in Being’s Road —
Eternity — by Term —

Our pace took sudden awe —
Our feet — reluctant — led —
Before — were Cities — but Between —
The Forest of the Dead —

Retreat — was out of Hope —
Behind — a Sealed Route —
Eternity’s White Flag — Before —
And God — at every Gate —

Il nostro viaggio era avanzato —
I nostri piedi erano quasi giunti
A quello strano Bivio nella Strada dell’Essere —
Eternità — per Nome —

Il nostro passo prese improvviso timore —
I nostri piedi — riluttanti — guidavano —
Davanti — c’erano Città — ma nel Mezzo —
La Foresta dei Morti —

Ritirarsi — era fuori d’ogni Speranza —
Dietro — una Via Sigillata —
La Bianca Bandiera dell’Eternità — Davanti —
E Dio — a ogni Porta —

I rose — because He sank —
I thought it would be opposite —
But when his power dropped —
My Soul grew straight.

I cheered my fainting Prince —
I sang firm — even — Chants —
I helped his Film — with Hymn —

And when the Dews drew off
That held his Forehead stiff —
I met him —
Balm to Balm —

I told him Best — must pass
Through this low Arch of Flesh —
No Casque so brave
It spurn the Grave —

I told him Worlds I knew
Where Emperors grew —
Who recollected us
If we were true —

And so with Thews of Hymn —
And Sinew from within —
And ways I knew not that I knew — till then —
I lifted Him —

Io sorsi — perché Lui affondò —
Pensavo sarebbe stato l’opposto —
Ma quando il suo potere cadde —
La mia Anima si fece dritta.

Rincuorai il mio Principe languente —
Cantai salde — piane — Salmodie —
Soccorsi il suo Velo — con l’Inno —

E quando le Rugiade si ritrassero
Che tenevano rigida la sua Fronte —
Lo incontrai —
Balsamo a Balsamo —

Gli dissi che il Migliore — deve passare
Per questo basso Arco di Carne —
Nessun Elmo così ardito
Da sdegnare la Tomba —

Gli dissi di Mondi che conoscevo
Dove crescevano Imperatori —
Che si ricordavano di noi
Se eravamo fedeli —

E così con Muscoli d’Inno —
E Nervo di dentro —
E modi che non sapevo di sapere — fino ad allora —
Lo sollevai —

Me from Myself — to banish —
Had I Art —
Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart —

But since Myself — assault Me —
How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?

And since We’re mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication —
Me — of Me?

Me da Me stessa — bandire —
Avessi l’Arte —
Inespugnabile la mia Fortezza
A ogni Cuore —

Ma poiché Me stessa — Mi assale —
Come avrò pace
Se non soggiogando
La Coscienza?

E poiché siamo Monarca reciproco
Come può essere
Se non per Abdicazione —
Me — di Me?

I dwell in Possibility —
A fairer House than Prose —
More numerous of Windows —
Superior — for Doors —

Of Chambers as the Cedars —
Impregnable of Eye —
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky —

Of Visitors — the fairest —
For Occupation — This —
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise —

Dimoro nella Possibilità —
Una Casa più bella della Prosa —
Più numerosa di Finestre —
Superiore — per Porte —

Di Stanze come i Cedri —
Inespugnabili all’Occhio —
E per Tetto Sempiterno
Le Falde del Cielo —

Di Visitatori — i più belli —
Per Occupazione — Questo —
Lo spalancare le mie strette Mani
A raccogliere il Paradiso —

The Soul that hath a Guest
Doth seldom go abroad —
Diviner Crowd at Home —
Obliterate the need —

And Courtesy forbid
A Host’s departure when
Upon Himself be visiting
The Emperor of Men —

L’Anima che ha un Ospite
Di rado esce fuori —
Folla più divina in Casa —
Cancella il bisogno —

E la Cortesia vieta
La partenza dell’Anfitrione quando
Presso di Lui è in visita
L’Imperatore degli Uomini —

Essential Oils — are wrung —
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns — alone —
It is the gift of Screws —

The General Rose — decay —
But this — in Lady’s Drawer
Make Summer — When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary —

Oli Essenziali — si spremono —
L’Essenza dalla Rosa
Non la estraggono i Soli — soltanto —
È il dono degli Strettoi —

La Rosa comune — decade —
Ma questa — nel Cassetto della Dama
Fa Estate — Quando la Dama giace
In Rosmarino Incessante —

To be alive — is Power —
Existence — in itself —
Without a further function —
Omnipotence — Enough —

To be alive — and Will!
’Tis able as a God —
The Maker — of Ourselves — be what —
Such being Finitude!

Essere vivi — è Potenza —
L’Esistenza — in se stessa —
Senza ulteriore funzione —
Onnipotenza — Abbastanza —

Essere vivi — e Volere!
È potente quanto un Dio —
Il Fattore — di Noi stessi — che sarà —
Se tale è la Finitudine!

Behind Me — dips Eternity —
Before Me — Immortality —
Myself — the Term between —
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin —

‘Tis Kingdoms — afterward — they say —
In perfect — pauseless Monarchy —
Whose Prince — is Son of None —
Himself — His Dateless Dynasty —
Himself — Himself diversify —
In Duplicate divine —

‘Tis Miracle before Me — then —
‘Tis Miracle behind — between —
A Crescent in the Sea —
With Midnight to the North of Her —
And Midnight to the South of Her —
And Maelstrom — in the Sky —

Dietro di Me — s’immerge l’Eternità —
Davanti a Me — l’Immortalità —
Io — il Termine frammezzo —
La Morte non che Deriva di Grigio d’Oriente,
Che si dissolve via nell’Alba,
Prima che l’Occidente cominci —

Son Regni — dopo — dicono —
In perfetta — Monarchia senza pause —
Il cui Principe — è Figlio di Nessuno —
Egli — la Sua Dinastia senza Data —
Egli — Sé stesso diversifica —
In Duplicato divino —

È Miracolo davanti a Me — allora —
È Miracolo dietro — frammezzo —
Una Falce di Luna nel Mare —
Con la Mezzanotte a Nord di Lei —
E la Mezzanotte a Sud di Lei —
E il Maelstrom — nel Cielo —

We thirst at first — ‘tis Nature’s Act —
And later — when we die —
A little Water supplicate —
Of fingers going by —

It intimates the finer want —
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West —
Termed Immortality —

Abbiamo sete dapprima — è Atto di Natura —
E più tardi — quando moriamo —
Un po’ d’Acqua supplichiamo —
Da dita che passano —

Ciò accenna al bisogno più fine —
La cui provvista adeguata
È quella Grande Acqua a Occidente —
Detta Immortalità —

The Spirit is the Conscious Ear.
We actually Hear
When We inspect — that’s audible —
That is admitted — Here —

For other Services — as Sound —
There hangs a smaller Ear
Outside the Castle — that Contain —
The other — only — Hear —

Lo Spirito è l’Orecchio Cosciente.
Noi udiamo davvero
Quando ispezioniamo — questo è udibile —
Questo è ammesso — Qui —

Per altri Servigi — come il Suono —
Pende un Orecchio più piccolo
Fuori dal Castello — che Contiene —
L’altro — soltanto — Ode —

My Soul — accused me — And I quailed —
As Tongue of Diamond had reviled
All else accused me — and I smiled —
My Soul — that Morning — was My friend —

Her favor — is the best Disdain
Toward Artifice of Time — or Men —
But Her Disdain — ‘twere lighter bear
A finger of Enamelled Fire —

La Mia Anima — mi accusò — E io tremai —
Come Lingua di Diamante avesse oltraggiato
Tutto il resto mi accusò — e io sorrisi —
La Mia Anima — quel Mattino — era la Mia amica —

Il Suo favore — è il miglior Disdegno
Verso l’Artificio del Tempo — o degli Uomini —
Ma il Suo Disdegno — più lieve sarebbe reggere
Un dito di Fuoco Smaltato —

One and One — are One —
Two — be finished using —
Well enough for Schools —
But for Minor Choosing —

Life — just — or Death —
Or the Everlasting —
More — would be too vast
For the Soul’s Comprising —

Uno e Uno — sono Uno —
Due — si smetta d’usarlo —
Bene abbastanza per le Scuole —
Ma per la Scelta Minore —

La Vita — appena — o la Morte —
O l’Eterno —
Di più — sarebbe troppo vasto
Perché l’Anima lo Comprenda —

On a Columnar Self —
How ample to rely
In Tumult — or Extremity —
How good the Certainty

That Lever cannot pry —
And Wedge cannot divide
Conviction — That Granitic Base —
Though None be on our Side —

Suffice Us — for a Crowd —
Ourself — and Rectitude —
And that Assembly — not far off
From furthest Spirit — God —

Su un Sé Colonnare —
Com’è ampio affidarsi
Nel Tumulto — o all’Estremo —
Com’è buona la Certezza

Che Leva non può scardinare —
E Cuneo non può dividere
La Convinzione — Quella Base Granitica —
Benché Nessuno sia dalla nostra Parte —

Ci Basti — per una Folla —
Noi Stessi — e la Rettitudine —
E quell’Assemblea — non lontana
Dallo Spirito più remoto — Dio —

She staked her Feathers — Gained an Arc —
Debated — Rose again —
This time — beyond the estimate
Of Envy, or of Men —

And now, among Circumference —
Her steady Boat be seen —
At home — among the Billows — As
The Bough where she was born —

Puntò le sue Piume — Guadagnò un Arco —
Esitò — Risalì ancora —
Questa volta — oltre la stima
Dell’Invidia, o degli Uomini —

E ora, fra la Circonferenza —
Si vede la sua salda Barca —
A casa — fra i Flutti — Come
Il Ramo dove nacque —

This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men —

How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery —

Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be —
Attended by a single Hound
Its own identity.

Questa Coscienza che è conscia
Dei Vicini e del Sole
Sarà quella conscia della Morte
E che essa sola

Sta attraversando l’intervallo
Fra l’Esperienza
E il più profondo esperimento
Destinato agli Uomini —

Quanto adeguate a se stessa
Saranno le sue proprietà
Essa a se stessa e nessuno
Farà la scoperta —

Avventura massima a se stessa
L’Anima condannata a essere —
Scortata da un unico Segugio
La propria identità.

To this World she returned.
But with a tinge of that —
A Compound manner,
As a Sod
Espoused a Violet,
That chiefer to the Skies
Than to himself, allied,
Dwelt hesitating, half of Dust,
And half of Day, the Bride.

A questo Mondo ella tornò.
Ma con una tinta di quello —
Una maniera Composita,
Come una Zolla
Sposasse una Violetta,
Che più ai Cieli
Che al suo sposo, legata,
Dimorò esitante, metà di Polvere,
E metà di Giorno, la Sposa.

To own the Art within the Soul
The Soul to entertain
With Silence as a Company
And Festival maintain

Is an unfurnished Circumstance
Possession is to One
As an Estate perpetual
Or a reduceless Mine.

Possedere l’Arte dentro l’Anima
L’Anima intrattenere
Con il Silenzio per Compagnia
E mantenere Festa

È una Circostanza spoglia
Il Possesso è per Uno
Come un Podere perpetuo
O una Miniera che mai scema.

‘Tis Anguish grander than Delight
’Tis Resurrection Pain —
The meeting Bands of smitten Face
We questioned to, again.

‘Tis Transport wild as thrills the Graves
When Cerements let go
And Creatures clad in Miracle
Go up by Two and Two.

È Angoscia più grande della Delizia
È di Resurrezione la Pena —
Le Schiere in incontro dal Volto percosso
Cui domandammo, di nuovo.

È Trasporto selvaggio quale freme le Tombe
Quando i Sudari lasciano la presa
E Creature vestite di Miracolo
Salgono a Due a Due.

I was a Phoebe — nothing more —
A Phoebe — nothing less —
The little note that others dropt
I fitted into place —

I dwelt too low that any seek —
Too shy, that any blame —
A Phoebe makes a little print
Upon the Floors of Fame —

Ero una Phoebe — niente più —
Una Phoebe — niente meno —
La piccola nota che altri lasciavano cadere
Io la mettevo al suo posto —

Dimoravo troppo in basso perché alcuno cercasse —
Troppo schiva, perché alcuno biasimasse —
Una Phoebe lascia una piccola impronta
Sui Pavimenti della Fama —

I heard, as if I had no Ear
Until a Vital Word
Came all the way from Life to me
And then I knew I heard.

I saw, as if my Eye were on
Another, till a Thing
And now I know ‘twas Light, because
It fitted them, came in.

I dwelt, as if Myself, were out,
My Body but within
Until a Might detected me
And set my kernel in.

And Spirit turned unto the Dust
”Old Friend, thou knowest me,“
And Time went out to tell the News
And met Eternity.

Udii, come se non avessi Orecchio
Finché una Parola Vitale
Venne fino a me dalla Vita
E allora seppi che udivo.

Vidi, come se il mio Occhio fosse
D’un Altro, finché una Cosa
E ora so che era Luce, perché
Vi si adattò, entrò.

Dimoravo, come se Me stessa, fosse fuori,
Il mio Corpo soltanto dentro
Finché una Potenza mi scoprì
E insediò il mio nocciolo.

E lo Spirito si volse alla Polvere
”Vecchia Amica, tu mi conosci,“
E il Tempo uscì a dare la Notizia
E incontrò l’Eternità.

Ended, ere it begun —
The Title was scarcely told
When the Preface perished from Consciousness
The Story, unrevealed —

Had it been mine, to print!
Had it been yours, to read!
That it was not Our privilege
The interdict of God —

Finita, prima d’iniziare —
Il Titolo era appena detto
Quando la Prefazione perì dalla Coscienza
La Storia, non rivelata —

Fosse stato mio, stamparla!
Fosse stato vostro, leggerla!
Che non fosse Nostro privilegio
L’interdetto di Dio —

I am afraid to own a Body —
I am afraid to own a Soul —
Profound — precarious Property —
Possession, not optional —

Double Estate — entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir —
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.

Ho paura di possedere un Corpo —
Ho paura di possedere un’Anima —
Profonda — precaria Proprietà —
Possesso, non facoltativo —

Duplice Patrimonio — vincolato a piacere
Su un Erede ignaro —
Duca in un attimo d’Immortalità
E Dio, per Frontiera.

My Cocoon tightens — Colors tease —
I’m feeling for the Air —
A dim capacity for Wings
Demeans the Dress I wear —

A power of Butterfly must be —
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty implies
And easy Sweeps of Sky —

So I must baffle at the Hint
And cipher at the Sign
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clue divine —

Il mio Bozzolo si stringe — i Colori tentano —
Vado tastando in cerca d’Aria —
Un’oscura capacità di Ali
Avvilisce la Veste che indosso —

Un potere di Farfalla dev’esserci —
L’Attitudine a volare
Prati di Maestà implica
E facili Volteggi di Cielo —

Così devo smarrirmi al Cenno
E decifrare a stento il Segno
E molto sbagliare, se alfine
Colgo l’indizio divino —

Too cold is this
To warm with Sun —
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this Agate were a work —
Outstaring Masonry —

How went the Agile Kernel out
Contusion of the Husk
Nor Rip, nor wrinkle indicate
But just an Asterisk.

Troppo freddo è questo
Per scaldarlo col Sole —
Troppo rigido per esser piegato,
Congiungere quest’Agata sarebbe un’opera —
Da vincere lo sguardo della Muratura —

Come uscì l’Agile Gheriglio
Contusione del Guscio
Né Strappo, né grinza indicano
Ma solo un Asterisco.

The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, erect,
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Auger and the Carpenter —
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life —
A past of Plank and Nail
And slowness — then the Scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul.

I Puntelli assistono la Casa
Finché la Casa è costruita
E poi i Puntelli si ritirano
E adeguata, eretta,
La Casa sostiene se stessa
E cessa di ricordare
La Trivella e il Carpentiere —
Proprio un tale retrospetto
Ha la Vita perfezionata —
Un passato di Asse e Chiodo
E lentezza — poi le Impalcature cadono
Affermandola un’Anima.

Contained in this short Life
Are magical extents
The soul returning soft at night
To steal securer thence

As Children strictest kept
Turn soonest to the sea
Whose nameless Fathoms slink away
Beside infinity

Racchiuse in questa breve Vita
Sono magiche estensioni
L’anima che torna lieve a notte
Per trafugarne più sicura

Come Bambini tenuti più stretti
Si volgono per primi al mare
I cui Abissi senza nome sgusciano via
Accanto all’infinità

Immortal is an ample word
When what we need is by
But when it leaves us for a time
’Tis a necessity.

Of Heaven above the firmest proof
We fundamental know
Except for its marauding Hand
It had been Heaven below.

Immortale è una parola ampia
Quando ciò che ci serve è accanto
Ma quando ci lascia per un tempo
È una necessità.

Del Cielo lassù la prova più ferma
Che in fondo conosciamo
Se non fosse per la sua Mano predatrice
Sarebbe stato Cielo quaggiù.

To disappear enhances —
The Man that runs away
Is tinctured for an instant
With Immortality

But yesterday a Vagrant —
Today in Memory lain
With superstitious value
We tamper with “Again”

But “Never” far as Honor
Withdraws the Worthless thing
And impotent to cherish
We hasten to adorn —

Of Death the sternest function
That just as we discern
The Excellence defies us —
Securest gathered then

The Fruit perverse to plucking,
But leaning to the Sight
With the ecstatic limit
Of unobtained Delight —

Scomparire accresce —
L’Uomo che fugge via
È tinto per un istante
D’Immortalità

Ieri appena un Vagabondo —
Oggi adagiato nella Memoria
Con superstizioso valore
Armeggiamo con l‘“Ancora”

Ma il “Mai” lontano quanto l’Onore
Ritira la Cosa senza pregio
E impotenti a custodire
Ci affrettiamo ad adornare —

Della Morte la funzione più severa
Che proprio mentre discerniamo
L’Eccellenza ci sfida —
Colta allora più al sicuro

Il Frutto ritroso al cogliere,
Ma proteso alla Vista
Con l’estatico limite
Di Delizia non ottenuta —

So much of Heaven has gone from Earth
That there must be a Heaven
If only to enclose the Saints
To Affidavit given.

The Missionary to the Mole
Must prove there is a Sky
Location doubtless he would plead
But what excuse have I?

Too much of Proof affronts Belief
The Turtle will not try
Unless you leave him — then return
And he has hauled away.

Tanto di Cielo se n’è andato dalla Terra
Che un Cielo deve esserci
Non fosse che a racchiudere i Santi
Per Affidavit attestati.

Il Missionario presso la Talpa
Deve provare che esiste un Firmamento
La Posizione senza dubbio addurrebbe
Ma io che scusa ho?

Troppa Prova offende la Fede
La Tartaruga non ci prova
Se non la lasci — e poi ritorni
E lei si è trascinata via.

Power is a familiar growth —
Not foreign — not to be —
Beside us like a bland Abyss
In every company —
Escape it — there is but a chance —
When consciousness and clay
Lean forward for a final glance —
Disprove that and you may —

Il Potere è una crescita familiare —
Non estranea — non a venire —
Accanto a noi come un blando Abisso
In ogni compagnia —
Sfuggirgli — non v’è che una possibilità —
Quando coscienza e argilla
Si protendono per un ultimo sguardo —
Confuta questo e potrai —

Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute,
May overlook your Track —

Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality —

Significance that each has lived
The other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate

Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live —

The “Life that is” will then have been
A thing I never knew —
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you —

The “Life that is to be,” to me,
A Residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer’s Face
I recognize your own —

Of Immortality who doubts
1306

He may exchange with me
Curtailed by your obscuring Face
Of everything but He —

Of Heaven and Hell I also yield
The Right to reprehend
To whoso would commute this Face
For his less priceless Friend.

If “God is Love” as he admits
We think that me must be
Because he is a “jealous God”
He tells us certainly

If “All is possible with” him
As he besides concedes
He will refund us finally
Our confiscated Gods —

Poiché tu te ne vai
E mai più tornerai
Ed io, per quanto assoluta,
Potrei smarrire la tua Traccia —

Poiché la Morte è finale,
Per quanto prima essa sia,
Quest’istante sia sospeso
Sopra la Mortalità —

Significato che ciascuno ha vissuto
Per scoprire l’altro
Scoperta che non Dio stesso
Potrebbe ora annientare

Eternità, Presunzione
Nell’istante in cui percepisco
Che tu, che eri Esistenza
Tu stesso scordasti di vivere —

La “Vita che è” sarà allora stata
Cosa che mai conobbi —
Come Paradiso fittizio
Fino al Reame di te —

La “Vita che sarà,” per me,
Dimora troppo spoglia
Se nel Volto del mio Redentore
Non riconosco il tuo —

Dell’Immortalità chi dubita
1306

Può fare cambio con me
Ridotta dal tuo Volto che oscura
Ogni cosa fuorché Lui —

Di Cielo e Inferno anche cedo
Il Diritto di riprendere
A chiunque scambierebbe questo Volto
Per il suo Amico meno inestimabile.

Se “Dio è Amore” come ammette
Pensiamo che me debba essere
Poiché egli è un “Dio geloso”
Ce lo dice certamente

Se “Tutto è possibile con” lui
Come inoltre concede
Egli ci rimborserà infine
I nostri Dèi confiscati —

A Word dropped careless on a Page
May stimulate an eye
When folded in perpetual seam
The Wrinkled Maker lie

Infection in the sentence breeds
We may inhale Despair
At distances of Centuries
From the Malaria —

Una Parola caduta incurante su una Pagina
Può stimolare un occhio
Quando ripiegato in perpetua piega
Giace il Rugoso Artefice

Infezione nella frase cova
Possiamo inalare Disperazione
A distanze di Secoli
Dalla Malaria —

The Bone that has no Marrow,
What Ultimate for that?
It is not fit for Table
For Beggar or for Cat.

A Bone has obligations —
A Being has the same —
A Marrowless Assembly
Is culpabler than shame.

But how shall finished Creatures
A function fresh obtain?
Old Nicodemus’ Phantom
Confronting us again!

L’Osso che non ha Midollo,
Quale Fine ultimo per esso?
Non è adatto alla Tavola
Né per Mendicante né per Gatto.

Un Osso ha degli obblighi —
Un Essere ha gli stessi —
Un’Assemblea senza Midollo
È più colpevole della vergogna.

Ma come otterranno Creature compiute
Una funzione nuova?
Il Fantasma del vecchio Nicodemo
Ci si para innanzi ancora!

Of Life to own —
From Life to draw —
But never tough the reservoir —
1341

1294. TWO LENGTHS HAS EVERY DAY —

Two Lengths has every Day —
Its absolute extent
And Area superior
By Hope or Horror lent —

Eternity will be
Velocity or Pause
At Fundamental Signals
From Fundamental Laws.

To die is not to go —
On Doom’s consummate Chart
No Territory new is staked —
Remain thou as thou art.

Della Vita da possedere —
Dalla Vita da attingere —
Ma mai toccare il serbatoio —
1341

1294. DUE LUNGHEZZE HA OGNI GIORNO —

Due Lunghezze ha ogni Giorno —
La sua estensione assoluta
E un’Area superiore
Da Speranza o Orrore prestata —

L’Eternità sarà
Velocità o Pausa
A Segnali Fondamentali
Da Leggi Fondamentali.

Morire non è andare —
Sulla Carta compiuta del Destino
Nessun Territorio nuovo è tracciato —
Rimani tu qual sei.

Recollect the Face of me
When in thy Felicity,
Due in Paradise today
Guest of mine assuredly —

Other Courtesies have been —
Other Courtesy may be —
We commend ourselves to thee
Paragon of Chivalry.

Ricorda il Volto di me
Quando nella tua Felicità,
Atteso in Paradiso oggi
Ospite mio di certo —

Altre Cortesie vi sono state —
Altra Cortesia potrà esservi —
Ci raccomandiamo a te
Paragone di Cavalleria.

Perhaps they do not go so far
As we who stay, suppose —
Perhaps come closer, for the lapse
Of their corporeal clothes —

It may be know so certainly
How short we have to fear
That comprehension antedates
And estimates us there —

Forse non vanno così lontano
Come noi che restiamo, supponiamo —
Forse vengono più vicino, per il cadere
Delle loro vesti corporee —

Può darsi sappiano con tale certezza
Quanto poco abbiamo da temere
Che la comprensione ci precede
E ci calcola già là —

The inundation of the Spring
Enlarges every soul —
It sweeps the tenement away
But leaves the Water whole —

In which the soul at first estranged —
Seeks faintly for its shore
But acclimated — pines no more
For that Peninsula —

L’inondazione della Primavera
Ingrandisce ogni anima —
Spazza via la dimora
Ma lascia intera l’Acqua —

In cui l’anima dapprima straniera —
Cerca fioca la sua riva
Ma acclimatata — non si strugge più
Per quella Penisola —

With Pinions of Disdain
The soul can farther fly
Than any feather specified
in Ornithology —
It wafts this sordid Flesh
Beyond its dull — control
And during its electric gale —
The body is a soul —
instructing by the same —
How little work it be —
To put off filaments like this
for immortality

Con Penne di Sdegno
L’anima può volare più lontano
Di qualunque piuma registrata
in Ornitologia —
Solleva questa sordida Carne
Oltre il suo ottuso — controllo
E durante la sua elettrica burrasca —
Il corpo è un’anima —
istruendo con ciò stesso —
Quanto poca fatica sia —
Deporre filamenti come questi
per l’immortalità

Than Heaven more remote,
For Heaven is the root,
But these the flitted seed.
More flown indeed
Than ones that never were,
Or those that hide, and are.

What madness, by their side,
A vision to provide
Of future days
They cannot praise.

My soul, to find them, come,
They cannot call, they’re dumb,
Nor prove, nor woo,
But that they have abode
Is absolute as God,
And instant, too.

Del Cielo più remoti,
Perché il Cielo è la radice,
Ma questi il seme volato via.
Più fuggiti invero
Di quelli che mai furono,
O di quelli che si celano, e sono.

Che follia, al loro fianco,
Offrire una visione
Di giorni futuri
Che non possono lodare.

Anima mia, a trovarli, vieni,
Non possono chiamare, sono muti,
Né provare, né corteggiare,
Ma che abbiano dimora
È assoluto come Dio,
E istantaneo, pure.

Those not live yet
Who doubt to live again —
“Again” is of a twice
But this — is one —
The Ship beneath the Draw
Aground — is he?
Death — so — the Hyphen of the Sea —
Deep is the Schedule
Of the Disk to be —
Costumeless Consciousness —
That is he —

Non vivono ancora quelli
Che dubitano di vivere di nuovo —
“Di nuovo” è di un due volte
Ma questo — è una —
La Nave sotto il Ponte levatoio
In secca — lui?
La Morte — così — il Trattino del Mare —
Profondo è il Registro
Del Disco che sarà —
Coscienza senza Costume —
Questo è lui —

How firm Eternity must look
To crumbling men like me
The only Adamant Estate
In all Identity —

How mighty to the insecure
Thy Physiognomy
To whom not any Face cohere —
Unless concealed in thee

Come salda deve apparire l’Eternità
A uomini in rovina come me
Il solo Possesso Adamantino
In tutta l’Identità —

Come possente all’insicuro
La tua Fisionomia
Per cui nessun Volto ha coesione —
Se non celato in te

He lived the Life of Ambush
And went the way of Dusk
And now against his subtle name
There stands an Asterisk
As confident of him as we —
Impregnable we are —
The whole of Immortality intrenched
Within a star —

Visse la Vita dell’Agguato
E se ne andò per la via del Crepuscolo
E ora accanto al suo nome sottile
Sta un Asterisco
Fiducioso di lui quanto noi —
Inespugnabili siamo —
L’intera Immortalità trincerata
Dentro una stella —

To the bright east she flies,
Brothers of Paradise
Remit her home,
Without a change of wings,
Or Love’s convenient things,
Enticed to come.

Fashioning what she is,
Fathoming what she was,
We deem we dream —
And that dissolves the days
Through which existence strays
Homeless at home.

Verso il luminoso oriente ella vola,
Fratelli del Paradiso
Rimandatela a casa,
Senza un cambio d’ali,
O le comode cose dell’Amore,
Indotta a venire.

Foggiando ciò che è,
Scandagliando ciò che era,
Crediamo di sognare —
E questo dissolve i giorni
In cui l’esistenza vaga
Senza casa, a casa.

The Spirit lasts — but in what mode —
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes —
Apart, it never talks —
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone — is not a Tune —
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know — now — or does it cease —
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply —
Adversity if it may be, or
Wild Prosperity,
The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognostic’s Push
Could make a Dent thereon —

Lo Spirito dura — ma in quale modo —
Quaggiù, il Corpo parla,
Ma solo come lo Spirito concede —
Separato, non parla mai —
La Musica nel Violino
Non emerge sola
Ma a Braccetto col Tocco, eppure il Tocco
Solo — non è Melodia —
Lo Spirito si cela nella Carne
Come Maree dentro il Mare
Che fanno viva l’Acqua, separati
Cosa sarebbe l’Uno o l’Altra?
Lo sa — ora — o cessa —
Ciò che a questo vien fatto,
Riprendendo a una data comune
Con ogni futuro essere?
L’Istinto incalza l’Adamante,
Esigendo questa Risposta —
Avversità se così sarà, oppure
Selvaggia Prosperità,
La Porta della Voce fu serrata così stretta
Prima che la mia Mente fosse seminata,
Che nemmeno la Spinta d’un Prognostico
Poté farvi un’Ammaccatura —

Expanse cannot be lost —
Not Joy, but a Decree
Is Deity —
His Scene, Infinity —
Whose rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my Beam was sown,
Not even a Prognostic’s push
Could make a Dent thereon —

The World that thou hast opened
Shuts for thee,
But not alone,
We all have followed thee —
Escape more slowly
To thy Tracts of Sheen —
The Tent is listening,
But the Troops are gone!

La Distesa non può perdersi —
Non Gioia, ma un Decreto
È la Deità —
La sua Scena, l’Infinito —
La cui Porta di voci fu serrata così stretta
Prima che il mio Raggio fosse seminato,
Che nemmeno la spinta d’un Prognostico
Poté farvi un’Ammaccatura —

Il Mondo che tu hai aperto
Si chiude per te,
Ma non solo,
Noi tutti ti abbiamo seguito —
Fuggi più lentamente
Verso le tue Distese di Splendore —
La Tenda è in ascolto,
Ma le Truppe sono andate!

He ate and drank the precious Words —
His Spirit grew robust —
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust —

He danced along the dingy Days
And this Bequest of Wings
Was but a Book — What Liberty
A loosened spirit brings —

Mangiò e bevve le Parole preziose —
Il suo Spirito si fece robusto —
Non seppe più d’esser povero,
Né che la sua forma era Polvere —

Danzò lungo i Giorni squallidi
E questo Lascito d’Ali
Era solo un Libro — Che Libertà
Porta uno spirito sciolto —

As from the earth the light Balloon
Asks nothing but release —
Ascension that for which it was,
Its soaring Residence.
The spirit looks upon the Dust
That fastened it so long
With indignation,
As a Bird
Defrauded of its song.

Come dalla terra il lieve Pallone
Non chiede altro che liberazione —
Ascensione ciò per cui esisteva,
La sua Dimora che si libra.
Lo spirito guarda la Polvere
Che tanto a lungo lo avvinse
Con indignazione,
Come un Uccello
Defraudato del suo canto.

Why should we hurry — why indeed?
When every way we fly
We are molested equally
By immortality.
No respite from the inference
That this which is begun,
Though where its labors lie
A bland uncertainty
Besets the sight
This mighty night —

Perché dovremmo affrettarci — perché mai?
Quando per ogni via voliamo
Siamo molestati ugualmente
Dall’immortalità.
Nessuna tregua dall’inferenza
Che questo che è iniziato,
Benché dove giacciano le sue fatiche
Una blanda incertezza
Assedia lo sguardo
Questa possente notte —

His mind of man, a secret makes
I meet him with a start
He carries a circumference
In which I have no part —

Or even if I deem I do
He otherwise may know
Impregnable to inquest
However neighborly —

La sua mente d’uomo, un segreto fa
lo incontro con un sussulto
egli porta una circonferenza
nella quale non ho parte —

O anche se credo di averla
lui può sapere altrimenti
Inespugnabile all’inchiesta
per quanto amichevole —

Please send me a copy of that Romance you were writing at Amherst. I am in a fever to read it. I expect it will be against my Whig feelings.

After this postscript many others follow, across the top, down the edges, tucked in wherever space will allow. There are also a few lines from each of three girl friends to “dear A.”

P. S. Our Section have commenced reading compositions, and we read once in a month, during which time we write two.

Intellectual brilliancy of an individual type was already at seventeen her distinguishing characteristic, and nothing of the recluse was yet apparent. Traditions of extraordinary compositions still remain; and it is certain that each was an epoch for those who heard, whether teachers or pupils. An old friend and schoolmate of Emily tells me that she was always surrounded by a group of girls at recess, to hear her strange and intensely funny stories, invested upon the spot.

I write A. to-night, because it is cool and quiet, and I can forget the toil and care of the feverish day, and then I am selfish too, because I am feeling lonely; some of my friends are gone, and some of my friends are sleeping—sleeping the churchyard sleep—the hour of eventing is sad—it was once my study hour—my master has gone to rest, and the open leaf of the book, and the scholar at school alone, make the tears come, and I cannot brush them away; I would not if I could, for they are the only tribute I can pay the departed Humphrey.

You have stood by the grave before; I have walked there sweet summer evenings and read the names on the stones, and wondered who would come and give me the same memorial; but I never have laid my friends there, and forgot that they too must die; this is my first affliction, and indeed ‘tis hard to bear it. To those bereaved so often that home is no more here, and whose communion with friends is had only in prayers, there must be much to hope for, but when the unreconciled spirit has nothing left but God, that spirit is lone indeed. I don’t think there will be any sunshine, or any singing-birds in the spring that’s coming… . I will try not to say any more—my rebellious thoughts are many, and the friend I love and trust in has much now to forgive. I wish I were somebody else—I would pray the prayer of the “Pharisee,” but I am a poor little “Publican.” “Son of David,” look down on me!

‘Twas a great while ago when you wrote me, I remember the leaves were falling—and now there are falling snows; who maketh the two to differ—are not leaves the brethren of snows?

Then it can’t be a great while since then, though I verily thought it was; we are not so young as we once were, and time seems to be growing long. I dream of being a grandame, and banding my silver hairs, and I seem to be quite submissive to the thought of growing old; no doubt you ride rocking-horses in your present as in young sleeps—quite a pretty contrast indeed, of me braiding my own gray hairs, and my friend at play with her childhood, a pair of decayed old ladies! Where are you, my antique friend, or my very dear and young one—just as you please to please—it may seem quite a presumption that I address you at all, knowing not if you habit here, or if my “bird has flown” in which world her wing is folded. When I think of the friends I love, and the little while we may dwell here, and then “we go away,” I have a yearning feeling, a desire eager and anxious lest any be stolen away, so that I cannot behold them. I would have you here, all here, where I can see you, and hear you, and where I can say “Oh, no,” if the “Son of Man” ever “cometh”!

It is not enough, now and then, at long and uncertain intervals to hear you’re alive and well. I do not care for the body, I love the timid soul, the blushing, shrinking soul; it hides, for it is afraid, and the bold, obtrusive body—Pray, marm, did you call me? We are very small, A.—I think we grow still smaller—this tiny, insect life the portal to another; it seems strange—strange indeed. I’m afraid we are all unworthy, yet we shall “enter in.”

I can think of no other way than for you, my dear girl, to come here—we are growing away from each other, and talk even now like strangers. To forget the “meum and teum,” dearest friends must meet sometimes, and then comes the “bond of the spirit” which, if I am correct, is “unity.”

… You are growing wiser than I am, and nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom—perchance to bear no fruit, or if plucked, I may find it bitter. The shore is safer, A., but I love to buffet the sea—I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger! You are learning control and firmness. Christ. Jesus will love you more. I’m afraid he don’t love me any! … Write when you will, my friend, and forget all amiss herein, for as these few imperfect words to the full communion of spirits, so this small giddy life to the better, the life eternal, and that we may live this life, and be filled with this true communion, I shall not cease to pray.

DEAR AUSTIN,—I rather thought from your letter to me that my essays, together with the lectures at Cambridge, were too much for you, so I thought I would let you have a little vacation; but you must have got rested now, so I shall renew the series. Father was very severe to me; he thought I’d been trifling with you, so he gave me quite a trimming about “Uncle Tom” and “Charles Dickens” and these “modern literati” who, he says, are nothing, compared to past generations who flourished when he was a boy. Then he said there were “somebody’s rev-e-ries,” he didn’t know whose they were, that he thought were very ridiculous—so I’m quite in disgrace at present, but I think of that “pinnacle” on which you always mount when anybody insults you, and that’s quite a comfort to me… .

After a page or two of information about friends in the village, the letter continues:

This is all the news I can think of, but there is one old story, Austin, which you may like to hear—it is that we think about you the whole of the livelong day, and talk of you when we’re together. And you can recollect when you are busy studying that those of us at home not so hard at work as you are, get much time to be with you. We all send our love to you.

In handwriting similar to the letters about 1862-68, are several poems, enclosed to the Hollands, among them,—

Away from home are some and I, An emigrant to be In a metropolis of homes Is common possibility. The habit of a foreign sky We, difficult, acquire, As children who remain in face, The more their feet retire.

And—

Though my destiny be fustian Hers be damask fine— Though she wear a silver apron, I, a less divine,

Still, my little gypsy being, I would far prefer, Still my little sunburnt bosom, To her rosier.

For when frosts their punctual fingers On her forehead lay, You and I and Doctor Holland Bloom eternally,

Roses of a steadfast summer In a steadfast land, Where no autumn lifts her pencil, And no reapers stand.

In addition to these, many other poems were sent to the Hollands, which have already been published; all of them, however, showing slight changes from copies which she retained.

In January of 1878, Mr. Bowles died, leaving a sense of irreparable loss, not only to his friends, but to his great constituency through The Republican, into whose success he had woven the very tissue of his own magnetic personality.

DEAR MARY,—The last April that father lived, lived I mean below, there were several snow-storms, and the birds were so frightened and cold, they sat by the kitchen door. Father went to the barn in his slippers and came back with a breakfast of grain for each, and hid himself while he scattered it, lest it embarrass them. Ignorant of the name or fate of their benefactor, their descendants are singing this afternoon.

As I glanced at your lovely gift, his April returned. I am powerless toward your tenderness:

Thanks of other days seem abject and dim, yet antiquest altars are the fragrantest. The past has been very near this week, but not so near as the future—both of them pleading, the latter priceless.

David’s grieved decision haunted me when a little girl. I hope he has found Absalom.

Immortality as a guest is sacred, but when it becomes as with you and with us, a member of the family, the tie is more vivid… .

If affection can reinforce, you, dear, shall not fall.

The new College church was given in 1870 by Mr. William French Stearns, brother of the Frazer so mourned; and its chime of bells was a memorial8 to the Amherst students who were killed in the war. A cannon, now in Williston Hall, Amherst College, was given by General Burnside at the request of Colonel Clark, in loving memory of Frazer Stearns, the first of all the Amherst students who enlisted, nearly two hundred and fifty in number.

An ill heart, like a body, has its more comfortable days, and then its days of pain, its long relapse, when rallying requires more effort than to dissolve life, and death looks choiceless.

Of Miss P——I know but this, dear. She wrote me in October, requesting me to aid the world by my chirrup more. Perhaps she stated it as my duty, I don’t distinctly remember, and always burn such letters, so I cannot obtain it now. I replied declining. She did not write to me again—she might have been offended, or perhaps is extricating humanity from some hopeless ditch… .

Emily was often besieged by different persons, literary and otherwise, to benefit the world by her “chirrup,” but she steadily refused to publish during her lifetime. In all these years she was constantly writing verses; and while, as already apparent, she frequently enclosed poems in letters to friends, the fact that scores in addition were being written every year was her own secret. Her literary methods were also her own,—she must frequently have tossed off, many times daily, the stray thoughts which came to her. The box of “scraps” found by her sister after her death proves this conclusively, as some of Emily’s rarest flashes were caught upon the margins of newspapers, backs of envelopes, or whatever bit of paper was nearest at hand, in the midst of other occupations. In the more carefully copied poems are many alterations, but it is a curious fact that not one change has reference to improvement in rhyme or rhythm. Every suggestion for a different word or phrase was in the evident hope that by some one of them the thought might be made clearer, and not in a single instance merely to smooth the form.

Whether Emily Dickinson had any idea that her work would ever be published cannot be known. Except when a friend occasionally “turned love to larceny” as some one has aptly said, nothing was printed before her death. One of the poems, indeed, begins,—

Publication is the auction Of the mind of man.

But the Prelude to the Poems, First Series, almost seems to indicate the thought of a possible future public, when she herself should be beyond the reach of the praise or criticism which her writing might call forth.

DEAR COUSINS,—Mr. S——had spoken with pleasure of you, before you spoke of him. Good times are always mutual; that is what makes good times. I am glad it cheered you.

We have had no rain for six weeks except one thunder shower, and that so terrible that we locked the doors, and the clock stopped—which made it like Judgment day. The heat is very great, and the grass so still that the flies speck it. I fear L——will despair. The notices of the “fall trade” in the hurrying dailies, have a whiff of coolness.

Vinnie has a new pussy the color of Branwell Brontë’s hair. She thinks it a little “lower than the angels,” and I concur with her. You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight—though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar charm. It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it, no one thinks to thank God… . Mother is worn with the heat, but otherwise not altering. I dream about father every night, always a different dream, and forget what I am doing daytimes, wondering where he is. Without anybody, I keep thinking. What kind can that be?

Dr. Steams died homelike, asked Eliza for a saucer of strawberries, which she brought him, but he had no hands. “In such an hour as ye think not” means something when you try it.

… The look of the words [stating the death of George Eliot] as they lay in the print I shall never forget. Not their face in the casket could have had the eternity to me. Now, my George Eliot. The gift of belief which her greatness denied her, I trust she receives in the childhood of the kingdom of heaven. As childhood is earth’s confiding time, perhaps having no childhood, she lost her way to the early trust, and no later came. Amazing human heart, a syllable can make to quake like jostled tree, what infinite for thee? …

… God is rather stern with his “little ones.” “A cup of cold water in my name” is a shivering legacy February mornings.

… Maggie’s brother is killed in the mine, and Maggie wants to die, but Death goes far around to those that want to see him. If the little cousins would give her a note—she does not know I ask it—I think it would help her begin, that bleeding beginning that every mourner knows.

DEAR COUSINS,—I hope you heard Mr. Sanborn’s lecture. My Republican was borrowed before I waked, to read till my own dawn, which is rather tardy, for I have been quite sick, and could claim the immortal reprimand, “Mr. Lamb, you come down very late in the morning.” Eight Saturday noons ago, I was making a loaf of cake with Maggie, when I saw a great darkness coming and knew no more until late at night. I woke to find Austin and Vinnie and a strange physician bending over me, and supposed I was dying, or had died, all was so kind and hallowed. I had fainted and lain unconscious for the first time in my life. Then I grew very sick and gave the others much alarm, but am now staying. The doctor calls it “revenge of the nerves”; but who but Death had wronged them? F——‘s dear note has lain unanswered for this long season, though its “Good-night, my dear,” warmed me to the core. I have all to say, but little strength to say it; so we must talk by degrees. I do want to know about L——, what pleases her most, book or tune or friend.

I am glad the housekeeping is kinder; it is a prickly art. Maggie is with us still, warm and wild and mighty, and we have a gracious boy at the barn. We remember you always, and one or the other often comes down with a “we dreamed of F——and L——last night”; then that day we think we shall hear from you, for dreams are couriers.

The little boy we laid away never fluctuates, and his dim society is companion still. But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.

The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery And everything unknown, But will the secret compensate For climbing it alone?

Vinnie’s love and Maggie’s, and mine is presupposed.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener, but the attempt comes, then the inundation, then it is all over, as is said of the dead.

Vinnie dreamed about F——last night, and designing for days to write dear L——,—dear, both of you,—indeed, with the astounding nearness which a dream brings, I must speak this morning. I do hope you are well, and that the last enchanting days have refreshed your spirits, and I hope the poor little girl is better, and the sorrow at least adjourned.

L——asked “what books” we were wooing now—watching like a vulture for Walter Cross’s life of his wife. A friend sent me Called Back. It is a haunting story, and as loved Mr. Bowles used to say, “greatly impressive to me.” Do you remember the little picture with his deep face in the centre, and Governor Bross on one side, and Colfax on the other? The third of the group died yesterday, so somewhere they are again together.

Moving to Cambridge seems to me like moving to Westminster Abbey, as hallowed and as unbelieved, or moving to Ephesus with Paul for a next-door neighbor.

Holmes’s Life of Emerson is sweetly commended, but you, I know, have tasted that… . But the whistle calls me—I have not begun—so with a moan, and a kiss, and a promise of more, and love from Vinnie and Maggie, and the half-blown carnation, and the western sky, I stop.

That we are permanent temporarily, it is warm to know, though we know no more.

DEAR FRIEND,—Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will you tell me more? Mr. Hawthorne died.

I was ill since September, and since April in Boston for a physician’s care. He does. not let me go, yet I work in my prison, and make guests for myself.

Carlo did not come, because that he would die in jail; and the mountains I could not hold now, so I brought but the gods.

I wish to see you more than before I failed. Will you tell me your health? I am surprised and anxious since receiving your note.

The only news I know Is bulletins all day From Immortality.

Can you render, my pencil? The physician has taken away my pen. I enclose the address from a letter, lest my fingers fail.

Knowledge of your recovery would excel my own.

The last afternoon that my father lived, though with no premonition, I preferred to be with him, and invented an absence for mother, Vinnie being asleep. He seemed peculiarly pleased, as I oftenest stayed with myself; and remarked, as the afternoon withdrew, he “would like it to not end.”

His pleasure almost embarrassed me, and my brother coming, I suggested they walk. Next morning I woke him for the train, and saw him no more.

His heart was pure and terrible, and I think no other like it exists.

I am glad there is Immortality, but would have tested it myself, before intrusting him. Mr. Bowles was with us. With that exception, I saw none. I have wished for you, since my father died, and had you an hour unengrossed, it would be almost priceless. Thank you for each kindness… . Your beautiful hymn, was it not prophetic? It has assisted that pause of space which I call “father.”

When I think of my father’s lonely life and lonelier death, there is this redress,—

Take all away; The only thing worth larceny Is left—the Immortality.

My earliest friend wrote me the week before he died, “If I live, I will go to Amherst; if I die, I certainly will.”

Is your house deeper off?

As already shown, Emily had affectively resisted all importunity to publish. Even the eloquent pleading of her long-time friend “H. H.” was of no avail; but apparently reinforcement in her decision was sometimes sought:—

DEAR FRIEND,—Are you willing to tell me what is right? Mrs. Jackson, of Colorado, was with me a few moments this week, and wished me to write for this.12 I told her I was unwilling, and she asked me why? I said I was incapable, and she seemed not to believe me and asked me not to decide for a few days. Meantime, she would write to me. She was so sweetly noble, I would regret to estrange her, and if you would be willing to give me a note saying you disapproved it and thought me unfit, she would believe you. I am sorry to flee so often to my safest friend, but hope he permits me.

DEAR FRIEND,—I felt it shelter to speak to you.

My brother and sister are with Mr. Bowles, who is buried this afternoon.

The last song that I heard—that was, since the birds—was, “He leadeth me, he leadeth me; yea, though I walk” —then the voices stooped, the arch was so low.

DEAR FRIEND,—May I ask the delight in advance, of sending you the Life of Mrs. Cross by her husband, which the papers promise for publication?

I feared some other pupil might usurp my privilege.

Emblem is immeasurable—that is why it is better than fulfilment, which can be drained.

DEAR COUSIN,—The sweet book found me on my pillow, where I was detained, or I should have thanked you immediately.

The little creature must have been priceless—yours and not yours—how hallowed!

It may have been she came to show you Immortality. Her startling little flight would imply she did.

May I remind you what Paul said, or do you think of nothing else, these October nights, without her crib to visit?

The little furniture of loss has lips of dirks to stab us. I hope Heaven is warm, there are so many barefoot ones. I hope it is near—the little tourist was so small. I hope it is not so unlike earth that we shall miss the peculiar form —the mould of the bird. “And with what body do they come?” Then they do come! Rejoice! What door? What hour? Run, run, my soul! Illuminate the house!

“Body!” then real,—a face and eyes,—to know that it is them! Paul knew the Man that knew the news, He passed through Bethlehem.

With love for you, and your sweet wife, “whom seeing not, we” trust.

DEAR FRIEND,—Your touching suggestion … is a tender permission… .

We cannot believe for each other—thought is too sacred a despot, but I hope that God, in whatever form, is true to our friend… . Consciousness is the only home of which we now know. That sunny adverb had been enough, were it not foreclosed.

When not inconvenient to your heart, please remember us, and let us help you carry it, if you grow tired. Though we are each unknown to ourself and each other, ‘tis not what well conferred it, the dying soldier asks, it is only the water.

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.

DEAR FRIEND,—The guilt of having sent the note had so much oppressed me that I hardly dared to read the reply, and delayed my heart almost to its stifling, sure you would never receive us again. To come unto our own and our own fail to receive us, is a sere response.

I hope you may forgive us.

All is faint indeed without our vanished mother, who achieved in sweetness what she lost in strength, though grief of wonder at her fate made the winter short, and each night I reach finds my lungs more breathless, seeking what it means.

To the bright east she flies, Brothers of Paradise Remit her home, Without a change of wings, Or Love’s convenient things, Enticed to come.

Fashioning what she is, Fathoming what she was, We deem we dream— And that dissolves the days Through which existence strays Homeless at home.

The sunshine almost speaks, this morning, redoubling the division, and Paul’s remark grows graphic, “the weight of glory.”

I am glad you have an hour for books, those enthralling friends, the immortalities, perhaps, each may pre-receive. “And I saw the Heavens opened.”

I hope that nothing pains you except the pang of life, sweeter to bear than to omit.

DEAR FRIEND,—Our friend your father was so beautifully and intimately recalled today that it seemed impossible he had experienced the secret of death.

A servant who had been with us a long time, and had often opened the door for him, asked me how to spell “genius” yesterday. I told her and she said no more. To-day she asked me what “genius” meant. I told her none had known.

She said she read in a Catholic paper that Mr. Bowles was “the genius of Hampshire,” and thought it might be that past gentleman. His look could not be extinguished to any who had seen him, for “because I live, ye shall live also,” was his physiognomy.

I congratulate you upon his immortality, which is a constant stimulus to my household, and upon your noble perpetuation of his cherished Republican.

Please remember me tenderly to your mother.

DEAR FRIEND,—Thank you for the paper. I felt it almost a bliss of sorrow that the name so long in Heaven on earth, should be on earth in Heaven.

Do you know if either of his sons have his mysterious face or his momentous nature?

The stars are not hereditary. I hope your brother and himself resumed the tie above, so dear to each below. Your bond to your brother reminds me of mine to my sister—early, earnest, indissoluble. Without her life were fear, and Paradise a cowardice, except for her inciting voice.

Should you have any picture of your brother, I should rejoice to see it at some convenient hour—and though we cannot know the last, would you sometime tell me as near the last as your grieved voice is able? …

Are you certain there is another life? When overwhelmed to know, I fear that few are sure.

My sister gives her grief with mine. Had we known in time, your brother would have borne our flowers in his mute hand. With tears,

Never unmindful of your anxiety for your father, dear friend, I refrained from asking, lest even the moment engrossed by reply, might take you from him.

The peril of a parent is a peculiar pang, and one which my sister and myself so long experienced,—oh, would it were longer, for even fear for them were dearer than their absence,—that we cannot resist to offer you our earnest sympathy. I most sincerely trust that the sight is redeemed, so precious to you both, more than vicariously to you—even filially—and that the added fear has not exhausted you beyond the art of spring to cheer.

I have lost, since writing you, another cherished friend, a word of whom I enclose—and how to repair my shattered ranks is a besetting pain. Be sure that my sister and myself never forget your brother, nor his bereaved comrade.

To be certain we were to meet our lost would be a vista of reunion who of us could bear? …

DEAR FRIEND,—These thoughts disquiet me, and the great friend is gone who could solace them. Do they disturb you?

The spirit lasts, but in what mode— Below, the body speaks; But as the spirit furnishes— Apart it never talks. The music in the violin Does not emerge alone But arm in arm with touch, yet touch Alone is not a tune. The spirit lurks within the flesh Like tides within the sea That make the water live; estranged What would the either be? Does that know now, or does it cease, That which to this is done, Resuming at a mutual date With every future one? Instinct pursues the adamant Exacting this reply— Adversity, if it may be, Or wild prosperity, The rumor’s gate was shut so tight Before my mind was sown, Not even a prognostic’s push Could make a dent thereon.

With the trust you live,

DEAR FRIEND,—The flower for which your brother cared resumes its siren circuit, and choosing a few for his name’s sake, I enclose them to you. Perhaps from some far site he overlooks their transit, and smiles at the beatitudes so recently his own. Ephemeral, eternal heart!

I hope you are in health, and that the fragile father has every peace that years possess… .

We think of your small mansion with unabated warmth, though is not any mansion vast that contains a father?

That this beloved spring inspirit both yourself and him, is our exceeding wish.

May the love that occasioned the first Easter shelter a few, this bereaved day.

Upon receiving an Easter card, probably 1875

It is possible, dear friend, that the rising of the one we lost would have engrossed me to the exclusion of Christ’s —but for your lovely admonition.

Sabbath morning was peculiarly dear to my father, and his unsuspecting last earthly day with his family was that heavenly one.

Vinnie and I were talking of you as we went to sleep Saturday night, which makes your beautiful gift of to-day almost apparitional.

Please believe how sweetly I thank you.

EMILY

To the Same

1875

What tenements of clover Are fitting for the bee, What edifices azure For butterflies and me— What residences nimble Arise and evanesce Without a rhythmic rumor Or an assaulting guess.

With love,

E. DICKINSON

“Come unto me.”

Beloved commandment! The darling obeyed it.

The power to console is not within corporeal reach—though its attempt is precious.

To die before it feared to die, may have been a boon.

DEAR FRIEND,—No “sonnet” had George Eliot. The sweet acclamation of Death is forever bounded.

There is no trumpet like the tomb— The Immortality she gave We borrowed at her grave. For just one plaudit famishing, The might of human love.

Beautiful as it is, its criminal shortness maims it.

A few days later came another, enclosing that brilliant, meteoric flash in words, her “humming-bird,” printed in the second volume of the Poems:—

Almost immediately she fell asleep, and never woke again to earthly sunshine.

In the quiet of leafy Amherst, in the old brick mansion behind its hedges and pines, she lived and wrote, and there she

“Ascended, from our vision To countenances new.”

We can be only grateful that she was moved to crystallize in words her thronging visions of blossom, and bird, and “blue, beloved air,”—of “life, death, and that vast forever” which was her nearest companion.

This is hardly the place to speak in detail of Emily Dickinson’s verses, their electrical quality, or their impressive effect upon the public, four years after her death. They are pervaded by a singular cadence of hidden rhythmical music, which becomes sympathetically familiar upon intimate acquaintance.

Dr. Holmes somewhere says that rhymes “are iron fetters: it is dragging a chain and a ball to march under their encumbrance”; and if in Emily Dickinson’s work there is frequently no rhyme where rhyme should be, a subtle something, welcome and satisfying, takes its place. An orchid among every-day, sweet-smelling flowers, strangeness and irregularity seem but to enhance her fascination.

A striking characteristic of her verse is its epigrammatic quality; terseness and vigor predominate, rather than feminine grace and smoothness. Homely experiences which all recognize, but few record, were to her texts for profound generalization. When the unmeaning mass of much modern poetry is compared with Emily Dickinson’s swift revelations, the operation suggests comparing distilled water with richest Burgundy. And as such water is no less insipid if served in cut-glass flagons, so we cannot care in what kind of bottle has been stored for years the condensed sweetness of tropic suns.

The eighteenth of May, 1886, Emily Dickinson was carried lovingly over the threshold she had not passed beyond in years.

“She went as softly as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour.”

To the few who gathered, that sunny afternoon, her friend, fellow-poet, and “master” read Emily Brontë’s noble Last Lines, with their lofty voicing of an unchangeable belief in the soul’s immortality,—“a favorite,” as Colonel Higginson so fitly said, “with our friend, who has now put on that Immortality which she seemed never to have laid off.”

She had lived in voluntary retirement from outside eyes; and now, in the sweet May sunshine, tender hands bore her through meadows starry with daisies into a silence and seclusion but little deeper.