Δευτέρα, 14 Φεβρουαρίου 2011

Emily Dickinson - Love-poems - If you were coming in the fall...



You left me

You left me, sweet, two legacies,—  
A legacy of love  
A Heavenly Father would content,  
Had He the offer of;  
   
You left me boundaries of pain          
Capacious as the sea,  
Between eternity and time,  
Your consciousness and me.


If you were coming in the fall 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, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I ’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I ’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time’s uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.
I hide myself within my flower I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too— And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.
That I did always love That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved I did not love enough. That I shall love alway, I offer thee That love is life, And life hath immortality. This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.
Have you got a brook in your little heart Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so? And nobody, knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there; And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there. Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go. And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life Some burning noon go dry!
As if some little Arctic flower As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes, Until it puzzled came To continents of summer, To firmaments of sun, To strange, bright crowds of flowers, And birds of foreign tongue! I say, as if this little flower To Eden wandered in— What then? Why, nothing, only Your inference therefrom!
My river runs to thee My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,— Say, sea, Take me!
I cannot live with you I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf The sexton keeps the key to, Putting up Our life, his porcelain, Like a cup Discarded of the housewife, Quaint or broken; A newer Sèvres pleases, Old ones crack. I could not die with you, For one must wait To shut the other’s gaze down,— You could not. And I, could I stand by And see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death’s privilege? Nor could I rise with you, Because your face Would put out Jesus’, That new grace Glow plain and foreign On my homesick eye, Except that you, than he Shone closer by. They ’d judge us—how? For you served Heaven, you know, Or sought to; I could not, Because you saturated sight, And I had no more eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise. And were you lost, I would be, Though my name Rang loudest On the heavenly fame. And were you saved, And I condemned to be Where you were not, That self were hell to me. So we must keep apart, You there, I here, With just the door ajar That oceans are, And prayer, And that pale sustenance, Despair! 
 
http://users.telenet.be/gaston.d.haese/dickinson_love.html 
 
 

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