Todo lo que sabemos del amor es que el amor es todo lo que hay.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.

This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

Sarei forse più solasenza la mia solitudine.Sono abituata al mio destino.

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They ’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell...

Kein Schiff trägt uns besser in ferne Länder, als ein Buch.

The Poets light but Lamps-Themselves-go out-

Heart, we will forget him,You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!Were I with theeWild Nights should beOur luxury!Futile – the winds –To a heart in port –Done with the compass –Done with the chart!Rowing in Eden –Ah, the sea!Might I moor...

A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t isTo meet an antique bookIn just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think,His venerable hand to take,And warming in our own,A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when...

I did not reach thee,But my feet slip nearer every day;Three Rivers and a Hill to cross,One Desert and a Sea—I shall not count the journey one When I am telling thee.Two deserts—but the year...

I died for beauty but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb,When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room.He questioned softly why I failed?”For beauty,” I replied.”And I for truth, the two are one;We...

I held a jewel in my fingersAnd went to sleep.The day was warm, and winds were prosy;I said: “‘T will keep.”I woke and chid my honest fingers,—The gem was gone;And now an amethyst remembranceIs all...

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass.

Come le donne le foglie si scambianoconfidenze acute.A volte sono cenni, a volteillazioni portentose.

How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn’t care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn...

Beauty is not caused. It is.

I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, ’twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any...

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —

There is another sky,Ever serene and fair,And there is another sunshine,Though it be darkness there;Never mind faded forests, Austin,Never mind silent fields -Here is a little forest,Whose leaf is ever green;Here is a brighter garden,Where...

Dich hab ich nicht erreicht-Doch nähert Tag für TagSich dir mein FußDrei Flüsse noch und ein BergIch überqueren muss.Noch Eine Wüste, noch ein Meer,Die Reise aber zähl ich nicht,Wenn ich dann vor Dir steh.Wir schreiten...

She died–this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the...

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

Non parlavo mai – se non sollecitata. In quei casi – brevemente – a voce bassa.Non mi riusciva di vivere nella confusione. Mi vergognavo del chiasso.

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the...

This is my letter to the worldThat never wrote to me

Anger as soon as fed is dead- ‘Tis starving makes it fat.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,Nor...

When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is ‘acquainted with Grief’, we listen, for that...

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven,...

Is Bliss then, such Abyss,I must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my footThan save my Boot –For yet to buy another Pairis possible,At any store — But...

Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,Like petals from a rose,When suddenly across the luneA wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass,No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan...

PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there’s a word to lift your hat to… to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that’s the genius behind poetry.

The sun just touched the morning;The morning, happy thing,Supposed that he had come to dwell,And life would be all spring.

Parting is all we know of Heaven,and all we need of Hell.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round – Of Ground,...

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept...

Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,–The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye….

To lose what we never owned might seem an eccentric Bereavement but Presumption has its Affliction as actually as Claim —

Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long,Or did it just begin?I could not tell the Date...