1886/05/17 - Amherst MA Emily Dickinson verlässt nach fünfundzwanzig Jahren erstmals wieder das Haus – in einem weissen Sarg, der mit vanillieduftenden Heliotropen und Frauenschuh-Orchideen unter einem Veilchenkranz geschmückt ist. Dem Wunsch der Dichterin entsprechend, wird sie entlang der Butterblumenfelder zu Grab getragen.
Dying at my music!
Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!
An awful Tempest mashed the air
An awful Tempest mashed the air-
The clouds were gaunt, and few-
A Black-as of a Spectre's Cloak
Hid Heaven and Earth from view.The creatures chuckled on the Roofs-
And whistled in the air-
And shook their fists-
And gnashed their teeth-
And swung their frenzied hair.The morning lit-the Birds arose-
The Monster's faded eyes
Turned slowly to his native coast-
And peace-was Paradise!
The Martyr Poets—did not tell
The Martyr Poets—did not tell—
But wrought their Pang in syllable—
That when their mortal name be numb—
Their mortal fate—encourage Some—
The Martyr Painters—never spoke—
Bequeathing—rather—to their Work—
That when their conscious fingers cease—
Some seek in Art—the Art of Peace—
Doom is the House without the Door
Doom is the House without the Door—
'Tis entered from the Sun—
And then the Ladder's thrown away,
Because Escape—is done—
'Tis varied by the Dream
Of what they do outside—
Where Squirrels play—and Berries die—
And Hemlocks—bow—to God—
The heart asks pleasure first
(...)
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
