Emily Dickinson, 379

 
Sa’n bytsje hoecht it Gers te dwaan,
In Kring fan sljochtwei Grien -
Oars net as Flinters koestering jaan
En Bijen wat fertier -

En soeie, deis, op leaflik lûd
Dat lânsdriuwt op ’e Wyn
En bûge nei de wrâld rûnom,
Op skoat de Sinneskyn,

En nachts Daudrippen riuwe ta
In Pearelstring sa moai
Dat sels in Hertoginne
Feal ôfstekt by dy toai,

En oergean, sels as it ferstjert,
Yn swietrook - like fyn
As speserij, te sliepen lein -
Of Nardus dy’t ferkwynt -

Dan wenje yn Skuorren Soeverein
En dreame, ’t einet nea,
Sa’n bytsje hoecht it Gers te dwaan,
Ach, wie Ik mar in Hea -

 

The Grass so little has to do,
A Sphere of simple Green -
With only Butterflies, to brood,
And Bees, to entertain -

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The Breezes fetch along,
And hold the Sunshine, in it’s lap
And bow to everything,

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearl,
And make itself so fine
A Duchess, were too common
For such a noticing,

And even when it die, to pass
In odors so divine -
As lowly spices, laid to sleep -
Or Spikenards perishing -

And then to dwell in Sovreign Barns,
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do,
I wish I were a Hay -

 

F379 (J333)

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