Poetessa, nato venerdì 10 dicembre 1830 a Amherst, Massachusetts (USA - Stati Uniti d'America), morto sabato 15 maggio 1886 a Amherst, Massachusetts (USA - Stati Uniti d'America)
The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves Her unintending Eyes - Took her own Heart, including our's, By innocent Surprise - The wrestle in her simple throat To hold the feeling down That vanquished her - defeated Feat - Was Fervor's sudden Crown.
The inundation of the Spring Enlarges every Soul - It sweeps the - tenements - away But leaves the Water whole - In which the Soul at first estranged - Seeks faintly for it's shore - But acclimated - pines no more For that Peninsula.
The Gentian has a parched Corolla - Like Azure dried 'Tis Nature's buoyant juices Beatified - Without a vaunt or sheen As casual as Rain And as benign - When most is past - it comes - Nor isolate it seems - It's Bond it's Friend - To fill it's Fringed career And aid an aged Year Abundant end -
It's lot - were it forgot - This truth endear - Fidelity is gain Creation o'er.
Summer has two Beginnings - Beginning once in June - Beginning in October Affectingly again - Without, perhaps, the Riot But graphicer for Grace - As finer is a going Than a remaining Face - Departing then - forever - Forever - until May - Forever is deciduous - Except to those who die.
One Joy of so much anguish Sweet Nature has for me - I shun it as I do Despair Or dear iniquity - Why Birds, a Summer morning Before the Quick of Day Should stab my ravished Spirit With Dirks of Melody Is part of an inquiry That will receive reply When Flesh and Spirit sunder In Death's immediately.
It was a quiet seeming Day - There was no harm in earth or sky - Till with the setting sun There strayed an accidental Red A strolling Hue, one would have said To westward of the Town - But when the Earth begun to jar And Houses vanished with a roar And Human Nature hid We comprehended by the Awe As those that Dissolution saw The Poppy in the Cloud.
How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights - When People have put out the Lights And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in - How pompous the Wind must feel Noons Stepping to incorporeal Tunes Correcting errors of the sky And clarifying scenery How mighty the Wind must feel Morns Encamping on a thousand Dawns - Espousing each and spurning all Then soaring to his Temple Tall.
How Human Nature dotes On what it cant detect - The moment that a Plot is plumbed It's meaning is extinct - Prospective is the friend Reserved for us to know When Constancy is clarified Of Curiosity -
Of subjects that resist Redoubtablest is this Where go we - Go we anywhere Creation after this?