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?