Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

* * *

Unto my books so good to turn
Far ends of tired days;
It half endears the abstinence,
And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer retarded guests
With banquetings to be,
So spices stimulate the time
Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without,
Far feet of failing men,
But holiday excludes the night,
And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;
Their countenances bland
Enamour in prospective,
And satisfy, obtained.

1. There Is a Shame of Nobleness
2. Till the End
3. Morns Like These We Parted
4. I Read My Sentence Steadily
5. The Battle-Field

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1592

Последние стихотворения

To English version