Poesie inserite da Silvana Stremiz

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The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows, -
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night's delicious close,
Between the March and April line -
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation's sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear.
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.

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Fame is a bee.
It has a song -
It has a sting -
Ah, too, it has a wing.

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Were nature mortal lady
Who had so little time
To pack her trunk and order
The great exchange of clime -
How rapid, how momentous -
What exigencies were -
But nature will be ready
And have an hour to spare.

To make some trifle fairer
That was too fair before -
Enchanting by remaining,
And by departure more.

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A train went through a burial gate,
A bird broke forth and sang,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
Till all the churchyard rang;
And then adjusted his little notes,
And bowed and sang again.
Doubtless, he thought it meet of him
To say good-by to men.

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Which misses most -
The hand that tends
Or heart so gently borne,
'Tis twice as heavy as it was
Because the hand is gone?
Which blesses most
The lip that can,
Or that that went to sleep
With "if I could" endeavoring
Without the strength to shape?

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Where every Bird is bold to go
And Bees abashless play
The Foreigner before he knocks
Must thrust the Tears away.

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Upon the gallows hung a wretch,
Too sullied for the hell
To which the law entitled him.
As nature's curtain fell
The one who bore him tottered in, -
For this was woman's son.
"'Twere all I had", she stricken gasped -
Oh, what a livid boon.

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'Twas here my summer paused
What ripeness after then
To other scene or other soul
My sentence had begun.
To winter to remove
With winter to abide
Go manacle your icicle
Against your Tropic Bride.

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To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

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To lose thee - sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
'Tis true the drought is destitute,
But then, I had the dew!
The Caspian has it's realms of sand,
It's other realm of sea.
Without the sterile perquisite,
No Caspian could be.