samedi 28 août 2010

The Moon

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond ;
Her cheek like béryl stone ;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part ;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will !

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star !
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

Emily DICKINSON, Selected poems and letters. Edited by Robert N. Linscott, New York, Doubleday, 1959, p. 157.


Qu’on me permette de signaler l’étude que consacre Lyndall Gordon à la poétesse sous le titre Lives Like Loaded Guns : Emily Dickinson and her Family’s Feuds (Viking Press) (1).
(1) It is a rare thing for a literary biographer to take on a well-known poet and completely rewrite history. This astonishing book, written with common sense and compassion, will do nothing less than revolutionise the way in which Dickinson is read for years to come. ("The Economist")
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