Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

The Mushroom

The mushroom is the elf of plants,
At evening it is not;
At morning in a truffled hut
It stops upon a spot

As if it tarried always;
And yet its whole career
Is shorter than a snake's delay,
And fleeter than a tare.

'T is vegetation's juggler,
The germ of alibi;
Doth like a bubble antedate,
And like a bubble hie.

I feel as if the grass were pleased
To have it intermit;
The surreptitious scion
Of summer's circumspect.

Had nature any outcast face,
Could she a son contemn,
Had nature an Iscariot,
That mushroom, -- it is him.

1. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
2. Unto My Books So Good to Turn
3. This Merit Hath the Worst
4. I Read My Sentence Steadily
5. A Country Burial

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1719

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