Emily Dickinson

I died for beauty, but was scarce ,Adjusted in the tomb When one who died for truth was lain .In an adjoining room

—I cannot live with You  —It would be Life —And Life is over there  Behind the Shelf

How happy is the little Stone ,That rambles in the Road alone And doesn’t care about Careers —And Exigencies never fears

,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

,A Coffin—is a small Domain Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise .In it diminished Plane

—I could bring You Jewels—had I a mind to —But You have enough—of those —I could bring You Odors from St. Domingo —Colors—from Vera Cruz

How the old Mountains drip with Sunset —How the Hemlocks burn How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder —By the Wizard Sun

—The Brain—is wider than the Sky  —For—put them side by side The one the other will contain —With ease—and you—beside

هي قصيدة من تأليف الشاعرة إميلي ديكنسون، تستخدم الشاعرة نحلة لوصف طبيعة الشهرة العابرة، إنها تستخدم صورًا ذكية وكتابة شعرية أصلية طوال الوقت.

,Departed to the judgment ;A mighty afternoon ,Great clouds like ushers leaning .Creation looking on

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower –The Frost beheads it at it’s play –In accidental power

!Ah, Moon—and Star —You are very far But were no one —Farther than you

,A Route of Evanescence –With a revolving Wheel  A Resonance of Emerald –A Rush of Cochineal 

A little Dog that wags his tail And knows no other joy Of such a little Dog am I Reminded by a Boy

,A drop fell on the apple tree ;Another on the roof ,A half a dozen kissed the eaves .And made the gables laugh

Two butterflies went out at noon ,And waltzed above a stream Then stepped straight through the firmament ;And rested on a beam

,There’s a certain Slant of light –Winter Afternoons  That oppresses, like the Heft –Of Cathedral Tunes 

,There is another sky ,Ever serene and fair ,And there is another sunshine ;Though it be darkness there

,The cricket sang ,And set the sun ,And workmen finished, one by one .Their seam the day upon

The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries –Enacted opon Earth

That it will never come again .Is what makes life so sweet Believing what we don’t believe .Does not exhilarate

–To fight aloud, is very brave  But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom –The Cavalry of Woe

,There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House —As lately as Today  I know it, by the numb look —Such Houses have — alway 

There is no Frigate like a Book ,To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page –Of prancing Poetry 

—There is a pain—so utter —It swallows substance up —Then covers the Abyss with Trance

—The Trees like Tassels — hit — and swung  There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures —Accompanying the Sun 

–The Soul has Bandaged moments  –When too appalled to stir  She feels some ghastly Fright come up –And stop to look at her 

The rainbow never tells me ,That gust and storm are by Yet is she more convincing .Than Philosophy

The heart asks pleasure – first -And then, excuse from pain And then, those little anodynes ;That deaden suffering

From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door —Emerged — a summer afternoon ,Repairing everywhere