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)
Cosmopolites without a plea Alight in every Land The compliments of Paradise From these within my Hand Their dappled Journey - to themselves A compensation fair - Knock and it shall be opened Is their Theology.
This Me - that walks and works - must die Some fair or stormy Day - Adversity if it may be Or wild prosperity The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight Before my mind was born Not even a Prognostic's push Can make a Dent thereon.
He ate and drank the precious Words - His Spirit grew robust - He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust - He danced along the dingy Days And this Bequest of Wings Was but a Book - What Liberty A loosened Spirit brings. Mangiò e bevve le preziose Parole - Il suo Spirito crebbe robusto - Non era più consapevole d'essere povero, Né che le sue ossa fossero Polvere - Danzava lungo gli squallidi Giorni E questo Lascito d'Ali Era soltanto un Libro - Che Libertà Procura uno Spirito affrancato -
To her derided Home A Weed of Summer came - She did not know her station low Nor Ignominy's name - Bestowed a summer long Upon a frameless flower - Then swept as lightly from disdain As Lady from her Bower - Of Bliss the Codes are few - As Jesus cites of Him - "Come unto me" the Moiety That wafts the Seraphim.
The Bird her punctual music brings And lays it in it's place - It's place is in the Human Heart And in the Heavenly Grace - What respite from her thrilling toil Did Beauty ever take - But Work might be Electric Rest To those that Magic make. L'Uccello porta la sua puntuale musica E la mette al suo posto - Il suo posto è nel Cuore Umano E nella Grazia Celeste - A sollievo dalla sua eccitante fatica Ebbe sempre la Bellezza - Ma il Lavoro può essere Elettrico Riposo Per quelli che creano Magia.
Expanse cannot be lost - Not Joy, but a Decree Is Deity - His Scene, Infinity - Whose rumor's Gate was shut so tight Before my Beam was sown, Not even a Prognostic's push Could make a Dent thereon - The World that thou hast opened Shuts for thee, But not alone, We all have followed thee - Escape more slowly To thy Tracts of Sheen - The Tent is listening, But the Troops are gone!
Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, Every Day. La Stregoneria è stata impiccata, nella Storia, Ma la Storia e io Scopriamo tutta la Stregoneria che ci serve Intorno a noi, Ogni Giorno.
The farthest Thunder that I heard Was nearer than the Sky And rumbles still, though torrid Noons Have lain their Missiles by - The Lightning that preceded it Struck no one but myself - But I would not exchange the Bolt For all the rest of Life - Indebtedness to Oxygen The Happy may repay, But not the obligation To Electricity - It founds the Homes and decks the Days And every clamor bright Is but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying Light - The Thought is quiet as a Flake - A Crash without a Sound, How Life's reverberation It's Explanation found.
We shun it ere it comes, Afraid of Joy, Then sue it to delay And lest it fly, Beguile it more and more, May not this be Old Suitor Heaven, Like our dismay at thee?
It would not know if it were spurned, This gallant little flower - How therefore safe to be a flower If one would tamper there. To enter, it would not aspire - But may it not despair That it is not a Cavalier, To dare and perish there?