Emily Dickinson, 448

Ik stoar om Skientme - mar wie skraach
Teplak skikt yn it Grêf
Of Ien, om Wierheid stoarn, waard lein
Yn in Alkoof hjirnêst -

“Wêrom’t Ik faald hie”? frege er sêft -
“Om Skientme”, sei ’k - en Hy
“Om Wierheid - Dy twa binne Ien -
En Bruorren binne wy” -

Sa hienen wy, as Sibben, praat -
Wylst Nacht ús Steeën duts -
Oant Mos ús oan de lippen kaam -
En oer - Us nammen luts -


I died for Beauty - but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room -

He questioned softly “Why I failed”?
“For Beauty”, I replied -
“And I - for Truth - Themself are One -
We Bretheren, are”, He said -

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night -
We talked between the Rooms -
Until the Moss had reached our lips -
And covered up - Our names -


F448 (J449). Ofbylding: Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA.

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