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)
He parts Himself - like Leaves - And then - He closes up - And then He leans with all His Might Upon a Buttercup - And then He runs against And oversets a Rose - And then does Nothing - Then away upon a Jib - He goes -
And dangles like a Mote Suspended in the Noon - Uncertain - to return Below - Or settle in the Moon -
What come of Him - at Night - The privilege to say Be limited by Ignorance - What come of Him - That Day -
The Frost - possess the World - In Cabinets - be shown - A Sepulchre of quaintest Floss - An Abbey - a Cocoon.
No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit - I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection - does - Circumference be full - The long restricted Grave Assert her Vital Privilege - The Dust - connect - and live -
On Atoms - features place - All Multitudes that were Efface in the Comparison - As Suns - dissolve a star -
Solemnity - prevail - It's Individual Doom Possess each - separate Consciousness - August - Resistless - dumb -
What Duplicate - exist - What scenery can be - Of the Significance of This - To Universe - and Me?
Her smile was shaped like other smiles - The Dimples ran along - And still it hurt you, as some Bird Did hoist herself, to sing, Then recollect a Ball, she got - And hold upon the Twig, Convulsive, while the Music crashed - Like Beads - among the Bog.
Like Flowers, that heard the news of Dews, But never deemed the dripping prize Awaited their - low Brows - Or Bees - that thought the Summer's name Some rumor of Delirium, No Summer - could - for Them -
Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred - By Tropic Hint - some Travelled Bird Imported to the Wood -
Or Wind's bright signal to the Ear - Making that homely, and severe, Contented, known, before -
The Heaven - unexpected come, To Lives that thought the Worshipping A too presumptuous Psalm.
The Soul has Bandaged moments - When too appalled to stir - She feels some ghastly Fright come up And stop to look at her - Salute her, with long fingers - Caress her freezing hair - Sip, Goblin, from the very lips The Lover - hovered - o'er - Unworthy, that a thought so mean Accost a Theme - so - fair -
The soul has moments of Escape - When bursting all the doors - She dances like a Bomb, abroad, And swings upon the Hours,
As do the Bee - delirious borne - Long Dungeoned from his Rose - Touch Liberty - then know no more, But Noon, and Paradise -
The Soul's retaken moments - When, Felon led along, With shackles on the plumed feet, And staples, in the Song,
The Horror welcomes her, again, These, are not brayed of Tongue.
If you were coming in the Fall, I'd brush the Summer by With half a smile, and half a spurn, As Housewives do, a Fly. If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls - And put them each in separate Drawers, For fear the numbers fuse -
If only Centuries, delayed, I'd count them on my Hand, Subtracting, till my fingers dropped Into Van Dieman's Land.
If certain, when this life was out - That your's and mine, should be - I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind, And take Eternity -
But, now, uncertain of the length Of this, that is between, It goads me, like the Goblin Bee - That will not state - it's sting.
It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down - It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues, for Noon. It was not Frost, for on my Flesh I felt Siroccos - crawl - Nor Fire - for just my Marble feet Could keep a Chancel, cool -
And yet, it tasted, like them all, The Figures I have seen Set orderly, for Burial, Reminded me, of mine -
As if my life were shaven, And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key, And 'twas like Midnight, some -
When everything that ticked - has stopped - And Space stares all around - Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns, Repeal the Beating Ground -
But, most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool - Without a Chance, or Spar - Or even a Report of Land - To justify - Despair.
If Anybody's friend be dead It's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive - At such and such a time - Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the Hair - A prank nobody knew but them Lost, in the Sepulchre -
How warm, they were, on such a day, You almost feel the date - So short way off it seems - And now - they're Centuries from that -
How pleased they were, at what you said! You try to touch the smile And dip your fingers in the frost - When was it - Can you tell -
You asked the Company to tea - Acquaintance - just a few - And chatted close with this Grand Thing That dont remember you -
Past Bows, and Invitations - Past Interview, and Vow - Past what Ourself can estimate - That - makes the Quick of Woe.
I'm ceded - I've stopped being Their's - The name They dropped upon my face With water, in the country church Is finished using, now, And They can put it with my Dolls, My childhood, and the string of spools, I've finished threading - too - Baptized, before, without the choice, But this time, consciously, of Grace - Unto supremest name - Called to my Full - The Crescent dropped - Existence's whole Arc, filled up, With one - small Diadem -
My second Rank - too small the first - Crowned - whimpering - on my Father's breast - A too unconscious Queen - But this time - Adequate - Erect, With power to choose, Or to reject, And I choose, just a Crown.