Published: Tue, September 12, 2017
World | By Tasha Manning

Emily Dickinson: translations: April 2014

Emily Dickinson: translations: April 2014

There is not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boughs - That phraseless Melody - The Wind does - working like a Hand, Whose fingers Combine the Sky - Then quiver down - with tufts of Tune - Permitted Gods, and me Inheritance, it is, to us -
Beyond the Art to Earn -
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers - > And inner than the Bone -
Hid golden, for the whole of Days, And even in the Urn,
I can not vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some Odd fashion of it's own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When winds go round and round in Bands -
And thrum upon the door, Orchestra.

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be -
Who never heard that fleshless Chant -
Rise - solemn - on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and sw Ept -
In Seamless Company -

Learn About Allergies
Taking control Most likely, your doctor will suggest ways to stay away from the allergen and may also prescribe medication. People with food allergies should learn to avoid any food containing the ingredients to which they are allergic.

Of all the sounds that are sent out,
For me there is no Load
Like that old compass of the Branches

That Melody Without a Sentence -
The Wind That Makes - Working Like a Hand,
Whose fingers comb the sky

And they tremble - with tufts of song -
Gods, And mine -

Inheritance, it is, for us -
Beyond the Art of Enriching -
Beyond the ability to steal
From the Thief, therefore the Benefit
Do not get it manually -
And it's more inward than the Bone

Hidden and golden, for the whole of the Days,
And not even in the Urn,
I can assure you the merry Dust
Do not get up and Play
In some strange way of yours,
A more peculiar Feast,
When Winds go round and round in Bands

And they touch the cap,
And the Birds occupy their posts,
To search for Orchestra.

Like this: