Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two. Эмили Дикинсон

      The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

            The heaven we chase

            Like the June bee

            Before the school-boy

            Invites the race;

            Stoops to an easy clover —

      Dips – evades – teases – deploys;

            Then to the royal clouds

            Lifts his light pinnace

            Heedless of the boy

      Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

            Homesick for steadfast honey,

            Ah! the bee flies not

      That brews that rare variety.

      We play at paste,

      Till qualified for pearl,

      Then drop the paste,

      And deem ourself a fool.

      The shapes, though, were similar,

      And our new hands

      Learned gem-tactics

      Practising sands.

      I found the phrase to every thought

      I ever had, but one;

      And that defies me, – as a hand

      Did try to chalk the sun

      To races nurtured in the dark; —

      How would your own begin?

      Can blaze be done in cochineal,

      Or noon in mazarin?

      Hope is the thing with feathers

      That perches in the soul,

      And sings the tune without the words,

      And never stops at all,

      And sweetest in the gale is heard;

      And sore must be the storm

      That could abash the little bird

      That kept so many warm.

      I 've heard it in the chillest land,

      And on the strangest sea;

      Yet, never, in extremity,

      It asked a crumb of me.

      Dare you see a soul at the white heat?

         Then crouch within the door.

      Red is the fire's common tint;

         But when the vivid ore

      Has sated flame's conditions,

         Its quivering substance plays

      Without a color but the light

         Of unanointed blaze.

      Least village boasts its blacksmith,

         Whose anvil's even din

      Stands symbol for the finer forge

         That soundless tugs within,

      Refining these impatient ores

         With hammer and with blaze,

      Until the designated light

         Repudiate the forge.

      Who never lost, are unprepared

      A coronet to find;

      Who never thirsted, flagons

      And cooling tamarind.

      Who never climbed the weary league —

      Can such a foot explore

      The purple territories

      On Pizarro's shore?

      How many legions overcome?

      The emperor will say.

      How many colors taken

      On Revolution Day?

      How many bullets bearest?

      The royal scar hast thou?

      Angels, write "Promoted"

      On this soldier's brow!

      I can wade grief,

      Whole pools of it, —

      I 'm used to that.

      But the least push of joy

      Breaks up my feet,

      And I tip – drunken.

      Let no pebble smile,

      'T was the new liquor, —

      That was all!

      Power is only pain,

      Stranded, through discipline,

      Till weights will hang.

      Give balm to giants,

      And they 'll wilt, like men.

      Give Himmaleh, —

      They 'll carry him!

      I never hear the word "escape"

      Without a quicker blood,

      A sudden expectation,

      A flying attitude.

      I never hear of prisons broad

      By soldiers battered down,

      But I tug childish at my bars, —

      Only to fail again!

      For each ecstatic instant

      We must an anguish pay

      In keen and quivering ratio

      To the ecstasy.

      For each beloved hour

      Sharp pittances of years,

      Bitter contested farthings

      And coffers heaped with tears.

      Through the straight pass of suffering

      The martyrs even trod,

      Their feet upon temptation,

      Their faces upon God.

      A stately, shriven company;

      Convulsion playing round,

      Harmless as streaks of meteor

      Upon a planet's bound.

      Their faith the everlasting troth;

      Their expectation fair;

      The