Emily Dickinson, 421

 
’t Hold op mei sear dwaan, mar sa traach
Dat Ik it wee net fuortgean seach -
Wist inkeld nei’t Ik omsjoen hie -
Dat eat - it Spoar ferwiskjen die -

Ik koe net sizze sûnt wannear,
Want Ik hie ’t droegen, kear op kear,
Sa faken as it Bernejak -
Dat Ik nachts ophong, oan in Heak.

Mar net de Rou - dy nestele Fêst
As Nullen - sêft troch dames treaun
Yn Kjessenwangen -
Hy is bleaun -

Ek fûn Ik net wat treast jûn hie -
Bliuwt oer, dat wêr’t earst Wyldlân wie -
It better is - hast Rêst -

 

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not see the trouble go -
But only knew by looking back -
That something - had benumbed the Track -

Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock -
I hung upon the Peg, at night.

But not the Grief - that nestled Close
As Needles - ladies softly press
To Cushions Cheeks -
To keep their place -

Nor what consoled it, I could trace -
Except, whereas ’twas Wilderness -
It’s better - almost Peace -

 

F421 (J584)

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