He Told a Homely Tale, par Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

He Told a Homely Tale

763

He told a homely tale

And spotted it with tears—

Upon his infant face was set

The Cicatrice of years—

All crumpled was the cheek

No other kiss had known

Than flake of snow, divided with

The Redbreast of the Barn—

If Mother—in the Grave—

Or Father—on the Sea—

Or Father in the Firmament—

Or Brethren, had he—

If Commonwealth below,

Or Commonwealth above

Have missed a Barefoot Citizen—

I’ve ransomed it—alive—

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

Vous avez aimé cette lecture ? Offrez-nous un café !.
Votre aide nous permet d'exister.

Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson...

We Play at Paste,

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,

It Is Easy to Work When the Soul Is at Play

244 It is easy to work when the soul i… But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings… Makes work difficult—then—

He Fumbles at Your Soul

315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—

Dust Is the Only Secret

153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”

This Merit Hath the Worst

979 This Merit hath the worst— It cannot be again— When Fate hath taunted last And thrown Her furthest Stone—

Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets

Whole Gulfs– of Red, and Fleets… And Crews– of solid Blood – Did place upon the West– Tonight… As ’twere specific Ground - And They– appointed Creatures –

Shells from the Coast mistaking

693 Shells from the Coast mistaking— I cherished them for All— Happening in After Ages To entertain a Pearl—

The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best

627 The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight—

She died – this was the way she died.

150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—

Tho’ I Get Home How Late—how Late

207 Tho’ I get home how late—how late… So I get home—’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me—

Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness

942 Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Wint… I admonish Thee

Fairer through Fading—as the Day

938 Fairer through Fading—as the Day Into the Darkness dips away— Half Her Complexion of the Sun— Hindering—Haunting—Perishing—

It Was Too Late for Man

623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—

The Drop, That Wrestles in the Sea

284 The Drop, that wrestles in the Se… Forgets her own locality— As I—toward Thee— She knows herself an incense small…

Some Days retired from the rest

Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die

Emily Dickinson

He Told a Homely Tale

Partager

Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson...