Emily Dickinson - An irgendeinem Sommermorgen. Poems/Gedichte

Counts his nectars –

Enters – and is lost in Balms.

ca. 1860

I taste a liquor never brewed –

From Tankards scooped in Pearl –

Not all the Frankfort Berries

Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air – am I –

And Debauchee of Dew –

Reeling – thro endless summer days –

From inns of Molten Blue –

When »Landlords« turn the drunken Bee

Out of the Foxglove’s door –

When Butterflies – renounce their »drams« –

I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –

And Saints – to windows run –

To see the little Tippler

Leaning against the – Sun –

ca. 1860

Safe in their Alabaster Chambers –

Untouched by Morning –

And untouched by Noon –

Lie the meek members of the Resurrection –

Rafter of Satin – and Roof of Stone!

Grand go the Years – in the Crescent – above them –

Worlds scoop their Arcs –

And Firmaments – row –

Diadems – drop – and Doges – surrender –

Soundless as dots – on a Disc of Snow –

1861

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple

Leaping like Leopards to the Sky

Then at the feet of the old Horizon

Laying her spotted Face to die

Stooping as low as the Otter’s Window

Touching the Roof and tinting the Barn

Kissing her Bonnet to the Meadow

And the Juggler of Day is gone

ca. 1861 /1866

I held a Jewel in my fingers –

And went to sleep –

The day was warm, and winds were prosy –

I said »’Twill keep« –

I woke – and chid my honest fingers,

The Gem was gone –

And now, an Amethyst remembrance

Is all I own –

ca. 1861

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!

Were I with thee

Wild Nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile – the Winds –

To a Heart in port –

Done with the Compass –

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden –

Ah, the Sea!

Might I but moor – Tonight –

In Thee!

ca. 1861

I shall keep singing!

Birds will pass me

On their way to Yellower Climes –

Each – with a Robin’s expectation –

I – with my Redbreast –

And my Rhymes –

Late – when I take my place in summer –

But – I shall bring a fuller tune –

Vespers – are sweeter than Matins – Signor –

Morning – only the seed of Noon –

ca. 1861

You see I cannot see – your lifetime –

I must guess –

How many times it ache for me – today – Confess –

How many times for my far sake

The brave eyes film –

But I guess guessing hurts –

Mine – get so dim!

Too vague – the face –

My own – so patient – covets –

Too far – the strength –

My timidness enfolds –

Haunting the Heart –

Like her translated faces –

Teazing the want –

It – only – can suffice!

ca. 1861

If I’m lost – now –

That I was found –

Shall still my transport be –

That once – on me – those Jasper Gates

Blazed open – suddenly –

That in my awkward – gazing – face –

The Angels – softly peered –

And touched me with their fleeces,

Almost as if they cared –

I’m banished – now – you know it –

How foreign that can be –

You’ll know – Sir – when the Savior’s face

Turns so – away from you –

ca. 1861

Put up my lute!

What of – my Music!

Since the sole ear I cared to charm –

Passive – as Granite – laps My Music –

Sobbing – will suit – as well as psalm!

Would but the »Memnon« of the Desert –

Teach me the strain

That vanquished Him –

When He – surrendered to the Sunrise –

Maybe – that – would awaken – them!

ca. 1861

A solemn thing – it was – I said –

A Woman – white – to be –

And wear – if God should count me fit –

Her blameless mystery –

A hallowed thing – to drop a life

Into the purple well –

Too plummetless – that it return –

Eternity – until –

I pondered how the bliss would look –

And would it feel as big –

When I could take it in my hand –

As hovering – seen – through fog –

And then – the size of this »small« life –

The Sages – call it small –

Swelled – like Horizons – in my vest –

And I sneered – softly – »small«!

ca. 1861

Many a phrase has the English language –

I have heard but one –

Low as the laughter of the Cricket,

Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue –

Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,

When the Tide’s a’ lull –

Saying itself in new inflection –

Like a Whippowil –

Breaking in bright Orthography

On my simple sleep –

Thundering it’s Prospective –

Till I stir, and weep –

Not for the Sorrow, done me –

But the push of Joy –

Say it again, Saxon!

Hush – Only to me!

ca. 1861

The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea –

Forgets her own locality –

As I – toward Thee –

She knows herself an incense small –

Yet small – she sighs – if All – is All –

How larger – be?

The Ocean – smiles – at her Conceit –

But she , forgetting Amphitrite –

Pleads – »Me«?

ca. 1861

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Dont tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!

ca. 1861

Of Bronze – and Blaze –

The North – Tonight –

So adequate – its forms –

So preconcerted with itself

So distant – to alarms –

An Unconcern so sovreign

To Universe, or me –

Infects my simple spirit

With Taints of Majesty –

Till I take vaster attitudes –

And strut upon my stem –

Disdaining Men, and Oxygen,

For Arrogance of them –

My Splendors, are Menagerie –

But their Competeless Show

Will entertain the Centuries

When I, am long ago,

An Island in dishonored Grass –

Whom none but Beetles – know.

ca. 1861

How the old Mountains drip with Sunset

How the Hemlocks burn –

How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder

By the Wizard Sun –

How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet

Till the Ball is full –

Have I the lip of the Flamingo

That I dare to tell?

Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows –

Touching all the Grass

With a departing – Sapphire – feature –

As a Duchess passed –

How a small Dusk crawls on the Village

Till the Houses blot