There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself —
Finite infinity.
Category: Emily Dickinson
I had no time to hate | Emily Dickinson
I had no time to Hate—
Because The Grave would hinder Me—
And life was not so
Ample I
Could finish—Enmity
Nor had I time to Love—
But since
Some Industry must be—
The little Toil of Love—
I thought
Be large enough for Me—
Hope | Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
Hindustani translation by Ayesha Kidwai:
उम्मीद
एमिली डिकिनसन
उम्मीद वो पंख-पोशीदा चीज़ है
जो रूह में बसेरा बनाती है
बिन बोल की धुन गुनगुनाती है
जिसका कभी कोई अंत नहीं
आंधी में सबसे मधुर होती है वो.
और घोर ही होगा वो तूफाँ
जो चुप कर पाए इस परिंदे को
जिसने कितनों का है ढाढ़स बांधा
में ने उसे सुना है सर्द ज़मीन पर
और अजनबी समंदर के अंदर
पर हद से हद तक, एक भी बारी
न माँगा है उसने मुझसे एक तिनका भी
I’m Nobody! Who are you? | Emily Dickinson
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
A Light exists in Spring
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay –
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
– Emily Dickinson
