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)
Her face was in a bed of hair, Like flowers in a plot - Her hand was whiter than the sperm That feeds the sacred light. Her tongue more tender than the tune That totters in the leaves - Who hears may be incredulous, Who witnesses, believes.
It was a quiet Way - He asked if I was His - I made no answer of the Tongue, But answer of the Eyes - And then he bore me high Before this mortal noise With swiftness, as of Chariots - And distance - as of Wheels -
The World did drop away As Counties - from the feet Of Him that leaneth in Balloon - Upon an Ether Street -
The Gulf behind - was not - The Continents - were new - Eternity - it was - before Eternity was due -
No Seasons were - to us - It was not Night - nor Noon - For Sunrise - stopped upon the Place - And fastened it - in Dawn -
I never saw a Moor - I never saw the Sea - Yet know I how the Heather looks And what a Billow be - I never spoke with God Nor visited in Heaven - Yet certain am I of the spot As if the Checks were given. Non ho mai visto una Brughiera - Non ho mai visto il Mare - Eppure so come appare l'Erica E che cos'è un'Onda - Non ho mai parlato con Dio Né visitato il Cielo - Eppure certa son io del luogo Come se il Biglietto fosse consegnato.
Tu troverai - quando sperimenterai la morte - Più facile lasciarsi andare - Rammentando coloro che se ne andarono - Non potresti farne a meno - lo sai. E anche se i loro posti in qualche modo furono riempiti - Come si riempirono i loro nomi di Marmo Con il Muschio - non divennero mai così pieni - Da farti scegliere i nomi più nuovi -
E quando questo Mondo - indietreggia sempre più - Come i Morenti - dicono che faccia - Il primo amore - più distintamente risalta - E soppianta quello recente -
E il Pensiero di loro - così bello attrae - Sembra una Grazia troppo volgare Restare indietro - solo con i Balocchi Che comprammo - per mitigare quel loro posto.
No Notice gave She, but a Change - No Message, but a Sigh - For Whom, the Time did not suffice That She should specify. She was not warm, though Summer shone Nor scrupulous of cold Though Rime by Rime, the steady Frost Upon Her Bosom piled -
Of shrinking ways - she did not fright Though all the Village looked - But held Her gravity aloft - And met the gaze - direct -
And when adjusted like a Seed In careful fitted Ground Unto the Everlasting Spring And hindered but a Mound
Her Warm return, if so she chose - And We - imploring drew - Removed our invitation by As Some She never knew.
Who Court obtain within Himself Sees every Man a King - And Poverty of Monarchy Is an interior thing - No Man depose Whom Fate Ordain - And Who can add a Crown To Him who doth continual Conspire against His Own.
Time feels so vast that were it not For an Eternity - I fear me this Circumference Engross my Finity - To His exclusion, who prepare By Processes of Size For the Stupendous Vision Of his Diameters.