Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

* * *

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'T is the seal, despair, --
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.

1. A Syllable
2. How Still the Bells in Steeples Stand
3. If the Foolish Call Them
4. Life's Trades
5. Unto My Books So Good to Turn

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