Poesie inserite da Silvana Stremiz

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To One denied the drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?
To lead Him to the Well
And let Him hear it drip
Remind Him, would it not, somewhat
Of His condemned lip.

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We pray - to Heaven -
We prate - of Heaven -
Relate - when Neighbors die -
At what o'clock to Heaven - they fled -
Who saw them - Wherefore fly?

Is Heaven a Place - a Sky - a Tree?
Location's narrow way is for Ourselves -
Unto the Dead
There's no Geography -

But State - Endowal - Focus -
Where - Omnipresence - fly?

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Myself was formed - a Carpenter -
An unpretending time
My Plane - and I, together wrought
Before a Builder came -
To measure our attainments -
Had we the Art of Boards
Sufficiently developed - He'd hire us
At Halves -

My Tools took Human - Faces -
The Bench, where we had toiled -
Against the Man - persuaded -
We - Temples build - I said.

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You love the Lord - you cannot see -
You write Him - every day -
A little note - when you awake -
And further in the Day,
An Ample Letter - How you miss -
And would delight to see -
But then His House - is but a Step -
And mine's - in Heaven - You see.

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I was the slightest in the House -
I took the smallest Room -
At night, my little Lamp, and Book -
And one Geranium -
So stationed I could catch the Mint
That never ceased to fall -
And just my Basket -
Let me think - I'm sure -
That this was all -

I never spoke - unless addressed -
And then, 'twas brief and low -
I could not bear to live - aloud -
The Racket shamed me so -

And if it had not been so far -
And any one I knew
Were going - I had often thought
How noteless - I could die.

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To make One's Toilette - after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still -
That's easier - than Braid the Hair -
And make the Bodice gay -
When Eyes that fondled it are wrenched
By Decalogues - away.

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My Garden - like the Beach -
Denotes there be - a Sea -
That's Summer -
Such as These - the Pearls
She fetches - such as Me.

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A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe -
And golden hang - while farther up -
The Maker's Ladders stop -
And in the Orchard far below -
You hear a Being - drop -
A Wonderful - to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished -
Cool of eye, and critical of Work -
He shifts the stem - a little -
To give your Core - a look -

But solemnest - to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer - Every Sun
The Single - to some lives.

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We Cover Thee - Sweet Face -
Not that We tire of Thee -
But that Thyself fatigue of Us -
Remember - as Thou go -
We follow Thee until
Thou notice Us - no more -
And then - reluctant - turn away
To Con Thee oer and oer -
And blame the scanty love
We were Content to show -
Augmented - Sweet - a Hundred fold -
If Thou would'st take it - now.

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The Himmaleh was known to stoop
Unto the Daisy low -
Transported with Compassion
That such a Doll should grow
Where Tent by Tent - Her Universe
Hung out it's Flags of Snow.