Emily Dickinson, 356

 
Soesto hjir komme takom Hjerst,
Ik boarstele de Simmer fuort,
Heal glimkjend, heal ek mei dedain,
As Húsfroulju in Mot.

Soe Ik dy oer in jier wer sjen,
Ik wuolle alle moannen gear,
Joech elke string in eigen Laad -
Gjin nûmers trochinoar!

Koe ’t pas nei Ieuwen opûnthâld,
Ik telde se dan op myn Hân,
Myn fingers rûgelen tsjin it lêst
Oant yn Van Diemenslân.

Soe ’k witte dat nei dit bestean
Der takomst is foar dy en my -
Ik smiet it fuort, as wie ’t in Skyl,
En keas foar Ivichheid -

Mar no, fan dit, dertuskenyn,
Wit Ik de duer net krekt.
Dat nitelet my - de Narder-Bij
Hâldt stil wannear’t er - stekt.

 

If you were coming in the Fall,
I’d brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls -
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse -

If only Centuries, delayed,
I’d count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out -
That your’s and mine, should be -
I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity -

But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee -
That will not state - it’s sting.

 

F356 (J511). Ofbyldings: Amherst College Library, Emily Dickinson Collection, fascicle 85.

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