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Emily Dickinson - Poesias

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 1755-1760-1764-1765-1767-1768-1770-1771-1774-1775

Emily Dickinson, poesias N. 1755-1760-1764-1765-1767-1768-1770-1771-1774-1775

Rubrica di letteratura "Chaminar e Pensar" traduzione in lingua occitana a cura di Peyre Anghilante

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 1755-1760-1764-1765-1767-1768-1770-1771-1774-1775
English

1755

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

1760

Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest Room
If in that Room a Friend await
Felicity or Doom –

What fortitude the Soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming Foot –
The opening of a Door –

1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows –
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night's delicious close,

Between the March and April line –
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation's sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear.
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.

1765

That Love is all there is
Is all we know of Love,
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

1767

Sweet hours have perished here,
This is a mighty room –
Within it's precincts hopes have played
Now shadows in the tomb.

1768

Lad of Athens, faithful be
To thyself,
And Mystery –
All the rest is Perjury –

1770

Experiment escorts us last –
His pungent company
Will not allow an Axiom
An Opportunity –

1771

How fleet – how indiscreet an one –
how always wrong is Love –
The joyful little Deity
We are not scourged to serve –

1774

Too happy Time dissolves itself
And leaves no remnant by –
'Tis Anguish not a Feather hath
Or too much weight to fly –

1775

The Earth has many keys –
Where Melody is not
Is the Unknown Peninsula –
Beauty - is Nature's Fact –

But Witness for Her Land –
And Winess for Her Sea –
The Cricket is Her utmost
Of Elegy, to Me –

occitan

1755

Per far un prat chal un trefuelh e un’abelha – 

un trefuelh e un’abelha,

e lo sumi.

Lo sumi da solet bastarè,

se las abelhas son gairas.


1760

L’Elisi es tan luenh coma

l’estància pus vesina

ente esperes un amís:

felicitat o condamna.

Quanta fòrça lhi a dins l’anma

que pòl tant endurar

lo resson d’un pas venent,

l’ubriment d’un uis.


1764

Lo bruch pus trist, lo bruch pus dòuç,

lo bruch pus fòl que lhi aie,

lhi aucèls lo fan de prima,

a la deliciosa tombaa de la nuech.


Sus la linha entre març e abril – 

aquela màgica frontiera

delai de la quala trantalha l’istat,

coma tròp celestialament da pè.


Nos fai pensar a tuchi lhi mòrts

que virondeavon aicí embe nos,

que l’emmaschament de la separacion

rendet cruelament pus chars.


Nos fai pensar a çò qu’avem agut,

e a çò qu’aüra deplorem.

Esquasi voleríem qu’aquelas golas de sirena

se’n anesson e chantesson pas mai.


Un’aurelha pòl troçar un còr uman 

tan lestament coma una lança,

voleríem que l’aurelha auguesse pas un còr

tan perilhosament da pè.


1765

Que l’amor sie tot çò que lhi a

es tot çò que saubem de l’amor,

es pro, la charja deu èsser

proporcionaa a la rea.


1767

Dòuças oras son perias aicí,

aqueste es un luec poderós –  

dins si enclaus an juat d’esperanças

d’aüra enlai d’ombras dins la tomba.


1768

Jovencèl d’Atena, sies fidèl

a tu mesme,

e al mistèri –  

tota la rèsta es de messonja.


1770

L’experiment nos acompanha fins a la fin – 

sa ponhenta companhia

consent pas un assiòma

ni un’oportunitat


1771

Que causa volatja, indiscreta

e sempre erronèa es l’amor – 

la pichòta Deïtat joiosa

que sem pas oblijats a servir.


1774

Un temp tròp aürós se dissòlv

e laissa pas gis de traça.

L’angoissa ensita a pas de plumas

o son tròp pesantas per volar.


1775

La tèrra a un baron de tonalitats.

Ente lhi a pas la melodia

es la penisla desconoissua.

La beltat es la realitat de la natura.

Mas en mirant sa tèrra

e en mirant sa mar

per mi lo grilh es lo som

de tota l’elegia.