#Emily Dickinson vita.

[pier-carlo-universe]

La Luna non era che un Mento Dorato di Emily Dickinson: un ritratto celestiale e intimo della Luna. Recensione di Alessandria today

Emily Dickinson, con la sua inconfondibile voce poetica, dipinge la Luna come una figura quasi umana, adornata di mistero e grazia, in una delle sue opere più evocative e simboliche.

Emily Dickinson, con la sua inconfondibile voce poetica, dipinge la Luna come una figura quasi umana, adornata di mistero e grazia, in una delle sue opere più evocative e simboliche. Attraverso metafore delicate e immagini brillanti, questa poesia esplora il rapporto tra il cielo e la Terra, rivelando il fascino eterno del nostro satellite naturale. La poesia: un ritratto intimo della…

[nochkoroleva]

[pietro-balivo]

"Non posso scriverti che ti amo nè tu lo puoi scrivere a me ma sappiamo che è così."

[annoyingdreamlanddestiny]

Emily Dickinson

[somehow---here]

Emergere da un abisso e rientrarvi – non è forse questo, la Vita?

Emily Dickinson, da una lettera a Susan Gilbert Dickinson, 1885

[marina98s]

Il per sempre è composto

da molti adesso.

-Emily Dickinson-

[illsadboy]

Sarei molto più sola senza la solitudine.

Emily Dickinson

[lunamarish]

Ciò che temevo venne, Ma meno spaventoso, Perché il lungo timore L'aveva quasi abbellito. Ci si abitua all'angoscia, Alla disperazione. Peggio saper che viene Che saperla presente. Chi indossa la sua pena Il mattino che è nuova Soffre più che a portarla Un'intera esistenza. 

Emily Dickinson

[quandotivedodimenticodiesistere]

…🤍

[banji-effect]

This Consciousness that is aware Of Neighbors and the Sun Will be the one aware of Death And that itself alone Is traversing the interval Experience between And most profound experiment Appointed unto Men — How adequate unto itself Its properties shall be Itself unto itself and none Shall make discovery — Adventure most unto itself The Soul condemned to be — Attended by a single Hound Its own identity.

Emily Dickinson

[anemonaee]

[selkie-on-land]

GODDESSES*

God, I just love a good Period Drama..

[pier-carlo-universe]

Il morire non è grande ferita: La poesia di Emily Dickinson tra vita e morte. Recensione di Alessandria today

Un’analisi profonda di una delle poesie più emblematiche della grande poetessa americana

Un’analisi profonda di una delle poesie più emblematiche della grande poetessa americana Emily Dickinson, una delle voci più intense e innovative della letteratura americana, affronta in questa poesia il tema universale della vita e della morte. Il componimento esprime la sofferenza dell’esistenza, rappresentando il morire non come una ferita insuperabile, bensì come un passaggio verso un…

[pearlsoflongago]

The Bees

Of Honey, Flowers, and Bees

Least Bee

Least Bee that brew – A Honey’s Weight The Summer multiply – Content Her smallest fraction help The Amber Quantity –

—Emily Dickinson

Bee-Master

I have known honey from the Syrian hills Stored in cool jars; the wild acacia there On the rough terrace where the locust shrills Tosses her spindrift on the ringing air. Narcissus bares his nectarous perianth In white and golden tabard to the sun, And while the workers rob the amaranth Or scarlet windflower low among the stone, Intent upon their crops, The Syrian queens mate in the high hot day Rapt visionaries of creative fray; Soaring from fecund ecstasy alone, And, through the blazing ether, drops Like a small thunderbolt the vindicated drone. But this is the bee-master's reckoning In England. Walk among the hives and hear. Forget not bees in winter, though they sleep. For winter's big with summer in her womb, And when you plant your rose-trees, plant them deep, Having regard to bushes all aflame, And see the dusky promise of their bloom In small red shoots, and let each redolent name- Tuscany, Crested Cabbage, Cottage Maid- Load with full June November's dank repose, See the kind cattle drowsing in the shade, And hear the bee about his amorous trade Brown in the gipsy crimson of the rose. In February, if the days be clear, The waking bee, still drowsy on the wing, Will sense the opening of another year And blunder out to seek another spring. Crashing through winter sunlight's pallid gold His clumsiness sets catkins on the willow Ashake like lambs' tails in the early fold, Dusting with pollen all his brown and yellow, But when the rimy afternoon turns cold And undern squalls buffet the chilly fellow, He'll seek the hive's warm waxen welcoming And set about the chambers' classic mould. And then, pell-mell, his harvest follows swift, Blossom and borage, lime and balm and clover, On Downs the thyme, on cliffs the scantling thrift, Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, For every bee becomes a drunken lover, Standing upon his head to sup the flowers, All over England, from Northumbrian coasts, To the wild sea-pink blown on Devon rocks. Over the merry southern gardens, over The grey-green bean-fields, round the Sussex oasts, Through the frilled spires of cottage hollyhocks, Go the big brown fat bees, and blunder in Where dusty spears of sunlight cleave the barn, And seek the sun again, and storm the whin, And in the warm meridian solitude Hum in the heather round the moorland tarn, Look, too, when summer hatches out the brood, In tardy May or early June, And the young queens are strong in the cocoon, Watch, if the days be warm, The flitting of the swarm. Follow, for if beyond your sight they stray Your bees are lost, and you must take your way Homeward disconsolate, but if you be at hand Then you may take your bees on strangers' land. Have your skep ready, drowse them with, your smoke, Whether they cluster on the handy bough Or in the difficult hedge, be nimble now, For bees are captious folk And quick to turn against the lubber's touch, But if you shake them to their wicker hutch Firmly, and turn towards the hive your skep, Into the hive the clustered thousands stream, Mounting the little slatted sloping step, A ready colony, queen, workers, drones, Patient to build again the waxen thrones For younger queens, and all the chambered cells For lesser brood, and all the immemorial scheme. And still they labour, though the hand of man Inscrutable and ravaging descend, Pillaging in their citadels, Defeating wantonly their provident plan, Making a havoc of their patient hoard; Still start afresh, not knowing to what end, Not knowing to what ultimate reward, Or what new ruin of the garnered hive The senseless god in man will send. Still their blind stupid industry will strive, Constructing for destruction pitiably, That still their unintelligible lord May reap his wealth from their calamity.

—Vita Sackville-West

Honey Harvest

Late in March, when the days are growing longer And sight of early green Tells of the coming spring and suns grow stronger, Round the pale willow-catkins there are seen The year's first honey-bees Stealing the nectar: and bee-masters know This for the first sign of the honey-flow.

Then in the dark hillsides the Cherry-trees Gleam white with loads of blossom where the gleams Of piled snow lately hung, and richer streams The honey. Now, if chilly April days Delay the Apple-blossom, and the May's First week come in with sudden summer weather, The Apple and the Hawthorn bloom together, And all day long the plundering hordes go round And every overweighted blossom nods. But from that gathered essence they compound Honey more sweet than nectar of the gods.

Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings The small white Clover. Field by scented field, Round farms like islands in the rolling weald, It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield A richer store of honey than the Rose, The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows Nectar of clearest amber, redolent Of every flowery scent That the warm wind upgathers as he goes.

In mid-July be ready for the noise Of million bees in old Lime-avenues, As though hot noon had found a droning voice To ease her soul. Here for those busy crews Green leaves and pale-stemmed clusters of green strong flowers Build heavy-perfumed, cool, green-twilight bowers Whence, load by load, through the long summer days They fill their glassy cells With dark green honey, clear as chrysoprase, Which housewives shun; but the bee-master tells This brand is more delicious than all else.

In August-time, if moors are near at hand, Be wise and in the evening-twilight load Your hives upon a cart, and take the road By night: that, ere the early dawn shall spring And all the hills turn rosy with the Ling, Each waking hive may stand Established in its new-appointed land Without harm taken, and the earliest flights Set out at once to loot the heathery heights.

That vintage of the Heather yields so dense And glutinous a syrup that it foils Him who would spare the comb and drain from thence Its dark, full-flavoured spoils: For he must squeeze to wreck the beautiful Frail edifice. Not otherwise he sacks Those many-chambered palaces of wax.

Then let a choice of every kind be made, And, labelled, set upon your storehouse racks — Of Hawthorn-honey that of almond smacks: The luscious Lime-tree-honey, green as jade: Pale Willow-honey, hived by the first rover: That delicate honey culled From Apple-blossom, that of sunlight tastes: And sunlight-coloured honey of the Clover. Then, when the late year wastes, When night falls early and the noon is dulled And the last warm days are over, Unlock the store and to your table bring Essence of every blossom of the spring. And if, when wind has never ceased to blow All night, you wake to roofs and trees becalmed In level wastes of snow, Bring out the Lime-tree-honey, the embalmed Soul of a lost July, or Heather-spiced Brown-gleaming comb wherein sleeps crystallised All the hot perfume of the heathery slope. And, tasting and remembering, live in hope.

—Martin Armstrong

Yellow Roses and Bees, Pink Roses and Wasps,��unidentified artist, formerly attributed to Zhao Chang, Qing Dynasty, courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

[winterrnightsworld]

[705]

L'incertezza è più ostile della morte.

La morte, anche se vasta,

è soltanto la morte e non può crescere.

All'incertezza invece non v'è limite,

perisce per risorgere

e morire di nuovo,

è l'unione del Nulla

con l'Immortalità.

c. 1863

[sageandscorpiongrass]

Loving You is Easy: On Love.

i love to be a lover <3

Jenny Slate, twitter | A Self-portrait in Letters, Anne Sexton | Bloom Into You, Sayaka Saeki | Kiss Goodnight, IDKHOW | Rêve d’Été, Shanna Van Maurik | You, Carol Ann Duffy | @\chenchenwrites on twitter | No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July | Emily Dickinson, in a letter to Mary Bowels | What Love Will Do To You, Laufey | Pink Starry Flower Field, Jessica Hamilton | I Had a Dream About You, Richard Siken | Sunstone, Octavio Paz (tr. by Eliot Weinberger) | @/brozyglow on tumblr | Poem of the Mountain, Marina Tsvetaeva | Tranquility, Brian McCarthy | I Am a Grand, Living, Buzzing Thing, Emma Bleker | Sophie, The Altogether | When You Ask Me Where I'm Going, Jasmine Kaur | Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Vita Sackville-West | @/lilith-of-stardust on tumblr

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