Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series One. Эмили Дикинсон

      The soul selects her own society,

      Then shuts the door;

      On her divine majority

      Obtrude no more.

      Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing

      At her low gate;

      Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling

      Upon her mat.

      I've known her from an ample nation

      Choose one;

      Then close the valves of her attention

      Like stone.

      Some things that fly there be, —

      Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:

      Of these no elegy.

      Some things that stay there be, —

      Grief, hills, eternity:

      Nor this behooveth me.

      There are, that resting, rise.

      Can I expound the skies?

      How still the riddle lies!

      I know some lonely houses off the road

      A robber 'd like the look of, —

      Wooden barred,

      And windows hanging low,

      Inviting to

      A portico,

      Where two could creep:

      One hand the tools,

      The other peep

      To make sure all's asleep.

      Old-fashioned eyes,

      Not easy to surprise!

      How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,

      With just a clock, —

      But they could gag the tick,

      And mice won't bark;

      And so the walls don't tell,

      None will.

      A pair of spectacles ajar just stir —

      An almanac's aware.

      Was it the mat winked,

      Or a nervous star?

      The moon slides down the stair

      To see who's there.

      There's plunder, – where?

      Tankard, or spoon,

      Earring, or stone,

      A watch, some ancient brooch

      To match the grandmamma,

      Staid sleeping there.

      Day rattles, too,

      Stealth's slow;

      The sun has got as far

      As the third sycamore.

      Screams chanticleer,

      "Who's there?"

      And echoes, trains away,

      Sneer – "Where?"

      While the old couple, just astir,

      Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

      To fight aloud is very brave,

      But gallanter, I know,

      Who charge within the bosom,

      The cavalry of woe.

      Who win, and nations do not see,

      Who fall, and none observe,

      Whose dying eyes no country

      Regards with patriot love.

      We trust, in plumed procession,

      For such the angels go,

      Rank after rank, with even feet

      And uniforms of snow.

      When night is almost done,

      And sunrise grows so near

      That we can touch the spaces,

      It 's time to smooth the hair

      And get the dimples ready,

      And wonder we could care

      For that old faded midnight

      That frightened but an hour.

      Read, sweet, how others strove,

      Till we are stouter;

      What they renounced,

      Till we are less afraid;

      How many times they bore

      The faithful witness,

      Till we are helped,

      As if a kingdom cared!

      Read then of faith

      That shone above the fagot;

      Clear strains of hymn

      The river could not drown;

      Brave names of men