Poesie inserite da Silvana Stremiz

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Se musica è la donna amata

Ma tu continua e perditi, mia vita,
per le rosse città dei cani afosi
convessi sopra i fiumi arsi dal vento.
Le danzatrici scuotono l'oriente
appassionato, effondono i metalli
del sole le veementi baiadere.
Un passero profondo si dispiuma
sul golfo ov'io sognai la Georgia:
dal mare (una viola trafelata
nella memoria bianca di vestigia)
un vento desolato s'appoggiava
ai tuoi vetri con una piuma grigia
e se volevi accoglierlo una bruna
solitudine offesa la tua mano
premeva nei suoi limbi odorosi
d'inattuate rose di lontano.

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Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights,
With plain inspecting face -
"Did you" or "Did you not," to ask -
'Tis "Conscience," Childhood's Nurse -
With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair
Upon my wincing Head -
"All" Rogues "shall have their part in" what -
The Phosphorous of God.

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'Tis not the swaying frame we miss -
It is the steadfast Heart,
That had it beat a thousand years,
With Love alone had bent -
It's fervor the electric Oar,
That bore it through the Tomb -
Ourselves, denied the privilege,
Consolelessly presume.

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Few, yet enough,
Enough is One -
To that etherial throng
Have not each one of us the right
To stealthily belong.

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Declaiming Waters none may dread -
But Waters that are still
Are so for that most fatal cause
In Nature - they are full.

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Immured in Heaven!
What a Cell!
Let every Bondage be,
Thou sweetest of the Universe,
Like that which ravished thee.

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There came a Wind like a Bugle -
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors
As from an Emerald Ghost -
The Doom's electric Moccasin
That very instant passed -
On a strange Mob of panting Trees
And Fences fled away
And Rivers where the Houses ran
Those looked that lived - that Day -
The Bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings told -
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the World!

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The Lassitudes of Contemplation
Beget a force -
They are the spirit's still vacation
That him refresh -
The Dreams consolidate in action -
What mettle fair.

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The Bobolink is gone - the Rowdy of the Meadow -
And no one swaggers now but me -
The Presbyterian Birds can now resume the Meeting
He gaily interrupted that overflowing Day
When opening the Sabbath in their afflictive Way
He bowed to Heaven instead of Earth
And shouted Let us pray.

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Not at Home to Callers
Says the Naked Tree -
Bonnet due in April -
Wishing you Good Day.