So Proud She Was to Die, por Emily Dickinson

So Proud She Was to Die

So proud she was to die

It made us all ashamed

That what we cherished, so unknown

To her desire seemed.

So satisfied to go

Where none of us should be,

Immediately, that anguish stooped

Almost to jealousy.

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

XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

There cam a Wind like a Bugle - It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doo…

612 It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—

169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!

A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin

55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.

407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—

723 It tossed—and tossed— A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by… It spun—and spun— And groped delirious, for Morn—

204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—

XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.

659 That first Day, when you praised… And said that I was strong— And could be mighty, if I liked— That Day—the Days among—

Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—

453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —