A Counterfeit– a Plated Person –, di Emily Dickinson

A Counterfeit– a Plated Person –

I would not be -

Whatever strata of Iniquity

My Nature underlie -

Truth is good Health - and Safety, and the Sky.

How meagre, what an Exile - is a Lie,

And Vocal– when we die –

Ti è piaciuta questa lettura? Offriteci un caffè!.
Il tuo aiuto ci permette di esistere.

897 How fortunate the Grave— All Prizes to obtain— Successful certain, if at last, First Suitor not in vain.

Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—

This quiet dust was gentlemen and… And lads and girls; Was laughter and ability and sighi… And frocks and curls; This passive place a summer’s nimb…

856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which…

XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.

Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air am I,

They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…

LIX I TOOK my power in my hand And went against the world; ’T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold.

365 Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore

76 Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses—past the headlands… Into deep Eternity—

XLIX WE outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.

689 The Zeroes—taught us—Phosphorous— We learned to like the Fire By playing Glaciers—when a Boy— And Tinder—guessed—by power

The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.