I never felt at Home–Below–, di Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

I never felt at Home–Below–

413

I never felt at Home–Below–

And in the Handsome Skies

I shall not feel at Home–I know–

I don’t like Paradise–

Because it’s Sunday–all the time–

And Recess–never comes–

And Eden’ll be so lonesome

Bright Wednesday Afternoons–

If God could make a visit–

Or ever took a Nap–

So not to see us–but they say

Himself–a Telescope

Perennial beholds us–

Myself would run away

From Him–and Holy Ghost–and All–

But there’s the “Judgement Day”!

#AmericanWriters

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We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing—

230 We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing… ’Tisn’t all Hock—with us— Life has its Ale— But it’s many a lay of the Dim Bu…

The Child’s Faith Is New

637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—

Partake as Doth the Bee

994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.

Dying! to Be Afraid of Thee

831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot

Expectation—is Contentment—

807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity

The Good Will of a Flower

849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate

The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune

285 The Robin’s my Criterion for Tun… Because I grow—where Robins do— But, were I Cuckoo born— I’d swear by him—

The Day That I Was Crowned

356 The Day that I was crowned Was like the other Days— Until the Coronation came— And then—'twas Otherwise—

373 I'm saying every day

I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way — And so I deck, a little, If it be, I wake a Bourbon,

There Is a June When Corn Is Cut

930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed

Fame Is the Tine That Scholars Leave

866 Fame is the tine that Scholars le… Upon their Setting Names— The Iris not of Occident That disappears as comes—

A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet

173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun!

Life XLVIII. Though I get home how late, how late!

XLVIII THOUGH I get home how late, how… So I get home, ’t will compensate… Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me,

She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms,

She sweeps with many-colored broom… And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in,

From Us She Wandered Now a Year

890 From Us She wandered now a Year, Her tarrying, unknown, If Wilderness prevent her feet Or that Ethereal Zone

Emily Dickinson

I never felt at Home–Below–

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