Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

* * *

As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear,
As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, --

In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes!

1. Reticence
2. Lost Faith
3. Unto My Books So Good to Turn
4. This Merit Hath the Worst
5. Going

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1718

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