Emily Dickinson, 582

 
It muoit my om de Deaden - Hjoed -
No’t miensumer as ea
Ald-Buorlju gearkomme by ’t stek -
It is no tiid foar Hea,

En Sinnewaarm - Gol Fûstkjen
En tusken ’t Wurk troch Praat -
En laitsjen, mei in húslikens
Dy’t Hikken glimkje lit -

’t Is faaks hiel hurd en lis apart
Fan ’t leven op it Lân -
Drok Ridskip - Opers swiet fan Geur -
Weisnipt - yn Meankadâns

Sy binne grif ûnwennich -
Dy Boeren - Man en Frou -
Op ôfstân set fan ’t Buorkjen -
En Buorlju noch yn tou -

’t Kin oars net of de Tombe
Fielt dochs wat iensum oan -
No’t Baas - Feint - Wein - en Juny
Nei it Lân te “Haaien” gean -

 

I’m sorry for the Dead - Today -
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences -
It’s time o’year for Hay,

And Broad - Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil -
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile -

It seems so straight to lie away
From all the noise of Fields -
The Busy Carts - the fragrant Cocks -
The Mower’s metre - Steals

A Trouble lest they’re homesick -
Those Farmers - and their Wives -
Set separate from the Farming -
And all the Neighbors’ lives -

A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Dont feel a lonesome way -
When Men - and Boys - and Carts - and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay” -

 

F582 (J529). Ofbyldings: Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA.

This entry was posted in Emily Dickinson and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.