Emily Dickinson, 122

 
Der keare hjoeddei Fûgels wer -
It bin’ in pear mar - twa, net mear -
Om wifkjend ta te sjen.

’t Ferwulf jout hjoeddei jitris blyk
Fan Juny’s âlde retoryk -
In blau mei goud fersin.

O leagen, jo oannimlikheid
Bringt net de snoade Bij mar my
Ta leauwe - foar in skoft,

Oant tsjûchnis komt fan risten sied -
En sêft snjit der in skruten blêd
Troch de feroare loft.

O sakramint fan simmertiid,
O Dizich Lêste Nachtmiel - lit
In bern noch diele yn

Jo hillige emblemata -
En nimme fan jo wijde brea,
Jo libbenjaande wyn!

 

These are the days when Birds come back -
A very few - a Bird or two -
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old - old sophistries of June -
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee.
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear -
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze -
Permit a child to join -

Thy sacred emblems to partake -
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

 

F122 (J130)

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