【读诗安眠】Emily Dickinson诗集7

【读诗安眠】Emily Dickinson诗集7 主播：梦雪 制作：郑小猫 美工：阿拾 宣传：高呆呆&小乖 It Always Felt To Me—a Wrong It always felt to me—a wrong To that Old Moses—done— To let him see—the Canaan— Without the entering— And tho’ in soberer moments— No Moses there can be I’m satisfied—the Romance In point of injury— Surpasses sharper stated— Of Stephen—or of Paul— For these—were only put to death— While God’s adroiter will On Moses—seemed to fasten With tantalizing Play As Boy—should deal with lesser Boy— To prove ability. The fault—was doubtless Israel’s— Myself—had banned the Tribes— And ushered Grand Old Moses In Pentateuchal Robes Upon the Broad Possession ‘Twas little—But titled Him—to see— Old Man on Nebo! Late as this— My justice bleeds—for Thee! A Tongue—to Tell Him I Am True! A Tongue—to tell Him I am true! Its fee—to be of Gold— Had Nature—in Her monstrous House A single Ragged Child— To earn a Mine—would run That Interdicted Way, And tell Him—Charge thee speak it plain— That so far—Truth is True? And answer What I do— Beginning with the Day That Night—begun— Nay—Midnight—’twas— Since Midnight—happened—say— If once more—Pardon—Boy— The Magnitude thou may Enlarge my Message—If too vast Another Lad—help thee— Thy Pay—in Diamonds—be— And His—in solid Gold— Say Rubies—if He hesitate— My Message—must be told— Say—last I said—was This— That when the Hills—come down— And hold no higher than the Plain— My Bond—have just begun— And when the Heavens—disband— And Deity conclude— Then—look for me. Be sure you say— Least Figure—on the Road— Delight Is As The Flight Delight is as the flight— Or in the Ratio of it, As the Schools would say— The Rainbow’s way— A Skein Flung colored, after Rain, Would suit as bright, Except that flight Were Aliment— “If it would last” I asked the East, When that Bent Stripe Struck up my childish Firmament— And I, for glee, Took Rainbows, as the common way, And empty Skies The Eccentricity— And so with Lives— And so with Butterflies— Seen magic—through the fright That they will cheat the sight— And Dower latitudes far on— Some sudden morn— Our portion—in the fashion— Done— Crisis Is A Hair Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep To suspend the Breath Is the most we can Ignorant is it Life or Death Nicely balancing. Let an instant push Or an Atom press Or a Circle hesitate In Circumference It—may jolt the Hand That adjusts the Hair That secures Eternity From presenting—Here— It Sifts From Leaden Sieves It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road— It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain— Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again— It reaches to the Fence— It wraps it Rail by Rail Till it is lost in Fleeces— It deals Celestial Vail To Stump, and Stack—and Stem— A Summer’s empty Room— Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, Recordless, but for them– It Ruffles Wrists of Posts As Ankles of a Queen— Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts— Denying they have been— Bloom Upon The Mountain—stated Bloom upon the Mountain—stated— Blameless of a Name— Efflorescence of a Sunset— Reproduced—the same— Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing Should endow the Day— Not a Topic of a Twilight— Show itself away— Who for tilling—to the Mountain Come, and disappear— Whose be Her Renown, or fading, Witness, is not here— While I state—the Solemn Petals, Far as North—and East, Far as South and West—expanding— Culminate—in Rest— And the Mountain to the Evening Fit His Countenance— Indicating, by no Muscle— The Experience— I Like To See It Lap The Miles I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a quarry pare To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop–docile and omnipotent– At its own stable door. For Death—or Rather For Death—or rather For the Things ‘twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity— The Things that Death will buy Are Room— Escape from Circumstances— And a Name— With Gifts of Life How Death’s Gifts may compare— We know not— For the Rates—lie Here— Don’t Put Up My Thread And Needle Don’t put up my Thread and Needle— I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so— These were bent—my sight got crooked— When my mind—is plain I’ll do seams—a Queen’s endeavor Would not blush to own— Hems—too fine for Lady’s tracing To the sightless Knot— Tucks—of dainty interspersion— Like a dotted Dot— Leave my Needle in the furrow— Where I put it down— I can make the zigzag stitches Straight—when I am strong— Till then—dreaming I am sewing Fetch the seam I missed— Closer—so I—at my sleeping— Still surmise I stitch— If You Were Coming In The Fall If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spum, 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, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time’s uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting. You’ll Know Her—by Her Foot You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes should be— Would more affront the Sand— Than this Quaint Creature’s Boot— Adjusted by a Stern— Without a Button—I could vouch— Unto a Velvet Limb— You’ll know Her—by Her Vest— Tight-fitting—Orange—Brown— Inside a Jacket duller— She wore when she was born— Her Cap is small—and snug— Constructed for the Winds— She’d pass for Barrhead—short way off— But as She Closer stands— So finer ’tis than Wool— You cannot feel the Seam— Nor is it Clasped unto of Band— Nor held upon—of Brim— You’ll know Her—by Her Voice— At first—a doubtful Tone— A sweet endeavour—but as March To April—hurries on— She squanders on your Ear Such Arguments of Pearl— You beg the Robin in your Brain To keep the other—still— Delayed Till She Had Ceased To Know Delayed till she had ceased to know— Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay— An hour behind the fleeting breath— Later by just an hour than Death— Oh, lagging Yesterday! Could she have guessed that it would be— Could but a crier of the joy Have climbed the distant hill— Had not the bliss so slow a pace Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still? Oh if there may departing be Any forgot by Victory In her imperial round— Show them this meek appareled thing That could not stop to be a king— Doubtful if it be crowned! Train I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a quarry pare To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down the hill And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop – docile and omnipotent – At its own stable door.