For Death—or rather, di Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

For Death—or rather

382

For Death—or rather

For the Things 'twould buy—

This—put away

Life’s Opportunity—

The Things that Death will buy

Are Room—

Escape from Circumstances—

And a Name—

With Gifts of Life

How Death’s Gifts may compare—

We know not—

For the Rates—lie Here—

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

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

Altre opere di Emily Dickinson...

The Pedigree of Honey

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

A Wind That Rose

A Wind that rose Though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred But with itself did cold engage Beyond the Realm of Bird -

To hang our head—ostensibly—

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

I’Ve None to Tell Me to But Thee

881 I’ve none to tell me to but Thee So when Thou failest, nobody. It was a little tie— It just held Two, nor those it he…

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant… At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always

You’ll know Her—by Her Foot—

634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—

I Cannot Dance Upon my Toes

326 I cannot dance upon my Toes’— No Man instructed me’— But oftentimes, among my mind, A Glee possesseth me,

Time LXVII. If I Should Die (54)

LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,

Gratitude—is not the mention

989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.

I Hide Myself Within my Flower

903 I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.

Papa Above!

61 Papa above! Regard a Mouse O’erpowered by the Cat! Reserve within thy kingdom

A Long, Long Sleep, a Famous Sleep

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?

Life XXXII. Hope is the thing with feathers (254)

XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,

Love XVII. the Wife (732)

XVII SHE rose to his requirement, drop… The playthings of her life To take the honorable work Of woman and of wife.

Could I But Ride Indefinite

661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me

Emily Dickinson

For Death—or rather

Condividere

Altre opere di Emily Dickinson...