Emily Dickinson - An irgendeinem Sommermorgen. Poems/Gedichte

[A Light, for me, did solemn glow,

The larger, as my face withdrew –

And could I, further, »No«?]1

ca. 1862

This was a Poet – It is That

Distills amazing sense

From ordinary Meanings –

And Attar so immense

From the familiar species

That perished by the Door –

We wonder it was not Ourselves

Arrested it – before –

Of Pictures, the Discloser –

The Poet – it is He –

Entitles Us – by Contrast –

To ceaseless Poverty –

Of Portion – so unconscious –

The Robbing – could not harm –

Himself – to Him – a Fortune –

Exterior – to Time –

ca. 1862

The Outer – from the Inner

Derives it’s Magnitude –

’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according

As is the Central Mood –

The fine – unvarying Axis

That regulates the Wheel –

Though Spokes – spin – more conspicuous

And fling a dust – the while.

The Inner – paints the Outer –

The Brush without the Hand –

It’s Picture publishes – precise –

As is the inner Brand –

On fine – Arterial Canvas –

A Cheek – perchance a Brow –

The Star’s whole Secret – in the Lake –

Eyes were not meant to know.

ca. 1862

Why make it doubt – it hurts it so –

So sick – to guess –

So strong – to know –

So brave – upon it’s little Bed

To tell the very last They said

Unto Itself – and smile – And shake –

For that dear – distant – dangerous – Sake –

But – the Instead – the Pinching fear

That Something – it did do – or dare –

Offend the Vision – and it flee –

And They no more remember me –

Nor ever turn to tell me why –

Oh, Master, This is Misery –

ca. 1862

The Red – Blaze – is the Morning –

The Violet – is Noon –

The Yellow – Day – is falling –

And after that – is none –

But Miles of Sparks – at Evening –

Reveal the Width that burned –

The Territory Argent – that

Never yet – consumed –

ca. 1862

I envy Seas, whereon He rides –

I envy Spokes of Wheels

Of Chariots, that Him convey –

I envy Crooked Hills

That gaze upon His journey –

How easy All can see

What is forbidden utterly

As Heaven – unto me!

I envy Nests of Sparrows –

That dot His distant Eaves –

The wealthy Fly, upon His Pane –

The happy – happy Leaves –

That just abroad His Window

Have Summer’s leave to play –

The Ear Rings of Pizarro

Could not obtain for me –

I envy Light – that wakes Him –

And Bells – that boldly ring

To tell Him it is Noon, abroad –

Myself – be Noon to Him –

Yet interdict – my Blossom –

And abrogate – my Bee –

Lest Noon in Everlasting Night –

Drop Gabriel – and Me –

ca. 1862

This World is not Conclusion.

A Species stands beyond –

Invisible, as Music –

But positive, as Sound –

It beckons, and it baffles –

Philosophy – dont know –

And through a Riddle, at the last –

Sagacity, must go –

To guess it, puzzles scholars –

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown –

Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –

Blushes, if any see –

Plucks at a twig of Evidence –

And asks a Vane, the way –

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –

Strong Hallelujahs roll –

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul –

ca. 1862

I would not paint – a picture –

I’d rather be the One

It’s bright impossibility

To dwell – delicious – on –

And wonder how the fingers feel

Whose rare – celestial – stir –

Evokes so sweet a Torment –

Such sumptuous – Despair –

I would not talk, like Cornets –

I’d rather be the One

Raised softly to the Ceilings –

And out, and easy on –

Through Villages of Ether –

Myself endued Balloon

By but a lip of Metal –

The pier to my Pontoon –

Nor would I be a Poet –

It’s finer – own the Ear –

Enamored – impotent – content –

The License to revere,

A privilege so awful

What would the Dower be,

Had I the Art to stun myself

With Bolts of Melody!

ca. 1862

He touched me, so I live to know

That such a day, permitted so,

I groped upon his breast –

It was a boundless place to me

And silenced, as the awful sea

Puts minor streams to rest.

And now, I’m different from before,

As if I breathed superior air –

Or brushed a Royal Gown –

My feet, too, that had wandered so –

My Gipsy face – transfigured now –

To tenderer Renown –

ca. 1862

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,

For fear the numbers fuse –

If only Centuries, delayed,

I’d count them on my Hand,

Subtracting, till my fingers dropped

Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out –

That your’s and mine, should be –

I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,

And take Eternity –

But, now, uncertain of the length

Of this, that is between,

It goads me, like the Goblin Bee –

That will not state – it’s sting.

ca. 1862

To hear an Oriole sing

May be a common thing –

Or only a divine.

It is not of the Bird

Who sings the same, unheard,

As unto Crowd –

The Fashion of the Ear

Attireth that it hear

In Dun, or fair –

So whether it be Rune,

Or whether it be none

Is of within.

The »Tune is in the Tree –«

The Skeptic – showeth me –

»No Sir! In Thee!«

ca. 1862

We learned the Whole of Love –

The Alphabet – the Words –

A Chapter – then the mighty Book –

Then – Revelation closed –

But in Each Other’s eyes

An Ignorance beheld –

Diviner than the Childhood’s –

And each to each, a Child –

Attempted to expound

What Neither – understood –

Alas, that Wisdom is so large –

And Truth – so manifold!

ca. 1862

If I may have it, when it’s dead,

I’ll be contented – so –

If just as soon as Breath is out

It shall belong to me –

Until they lock it in the Grave,

’Tis Bliss I cannot weigh –

For tho’ they lock Thee in the Grave,

Myself – can own the key –

Think of it Lover! I and Thee

Permitted – face to face to be –

After a Life – a Death – We’ll say –

For Death was That –

And This – is Thee –

I’ll tell Thee All – how Bald it grew –

How Midnight felt, at first – to me –