Fame Is a Fickle Food (1659), di Emily Dickinson

Fame Is a Fickle Food (1659)

Fame is a fickle food

Upon a shifting plate

Whose table once a

Guest but not

The second time is set.

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the Farmer’s Corn—

Men eat of it and die.

Ti è piaciuta questa lettura? Offriteci un caffè!.
Il tuo aiuto ci permette di esistere.

185 “Faith” is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.

To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise

I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died

708 I sometimes drop it, for a Quick— The Thought to be alive— Anonymous Delight to know— And Madder—to conceive—

17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

860 Absence disembodies—so does Death Hiding individuals from the Earth Superposition helps, as well as lo… Tenderness decreases as we prove—

Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it ma…

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which…

137 Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men:

High from the earth I heard a bir… He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly

120 If this is “fading” Oh let me immediately “fade”! If this is “dying” Bury me, in such a shroud of red!

826 Love reckons by itself—alone— “As large as I”—relate the Sun To One who never felt it blaze— Itself is all the like it has—

451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— ’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—

513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…