Literatura Norteamericana I

Groups: 1, 3 & 5

Women and Poetry in America

1. Anne Bradstreet

Poem 1: A Letter to her Husband, Absent Upon Public Employment

My head, my heart, mine Eyes, my life, nay more,

My joy, my Magazine of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lye?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever
If but a neck, soon should we be together:
I like the earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in’s Zodiack,
Whom whilst I ’joy’d, nor storms, nor frosts I felt,
His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now nummed lye forlorn;
Return, return sweet Sol from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Then view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living Pictures of their Fathers face.
O strange effect! now thou art Southward gone,
I weary grow, the tedious day so long;
But when thou Northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till natures sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.

Poem 2: Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,
I wakened was with thund’ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then, coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.

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And when I could no longer look,
I blest His name that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own, it was not mine,
Far be it that I should repine;
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best.
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be.
In silence ever shalt thou lie,
Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.
Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,
And did thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Frameed by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent though this be fled.
It‘s purchased and paid for too
By Him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by His gift is made thine own;
There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,
Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love,
My hope and treasure lies above.

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2. Phillis Wheatley

Poem 1: On Being Brought from Africa to America

'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

Poem 2: On Imagination

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,

How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp
by thee!
Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:
Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,

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O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:
From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

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3. Emily Dickinson

Poem 1: I measure every Grief I meet (561)

I measure every Grief I meet

With narrow, probing, eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long –

Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –

I wonder if it hurts to live –

And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –

At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –

Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still

Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –

There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –

A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

And though I may not guess the kind –

Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –

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To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they’re mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –

Poem 2: From “We grow accustomed to the Dark”

Either the Darkness alters—

Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.

Poem 3: A narrow Fellow in the Grass

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides -
You may have met him? Did you not
His notice instant is -

The Grass divides as with a Comb,

A spotted Shaft is seen,
And then it closes at your Feet
And opens further on -

He likes a Boggy Acre -

A Floor too cool for Corn -
But when a Boy and Barefoot
I more than once at Noon

Have passed I thought a Whip Lash

Unbraiding in the Sun
When stooping to secure it
It wrinkled And was gone -

Several of Nature’s People

I know, and they know me
I feel for them a transport
Of Cordiality

But never met this Fellow

Attended or alone
Without a tighter Breathing
And Zero at the Bone.

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Poem 4: Four Trees upon a Solitary Acre

Four Trees — upon a solitary Acre —

Without Design
Or Order, or Apparent Action —
Maintain —
The Sun — upon a Morning meets them —
The Wind —
No nearer Neighbor — have they —
But God —
The Acre gives them — Place —
They — Him — Attention of Passer by —
Of Shadow, or of Squirrel, haply —
Or Boy —
What Deed is Theirs unto the General Nature —
What Plan
They severally — retard — or further —
Unknown —

Poem 5: Bound a Trouble

Bound—a trouble—
And lives can bear it!
Limit—how deep a bleeding go!
So—many—drops—of vital scarlet—
Deal with the soul
As with Algebra!

Tell it the Ages—to a cypher—

And it will ache—contented—on—
Sing—at its pain—as any Workman—
Notching the fall of the Even Sun!

Poem 6: Going to Heaven!

Going to Heaven!
I don’t know when—
Pray do not ask me how!
Indeed I’m too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to Heaven!
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the Shepherd’s arm!

Perhaps you’re going too!

Who knows?
If you should get there first
Save just a little space for me
Close to the two I lost—

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The smallest “Robe” will fit me
And just a bit of “Crown”—
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home—

I’m glad I don’t believe it

For it would stop my breath—
And I’d like to look a little more
At such a curious Earth!
I’m glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the might Autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.

Poem 7: Dear March Come in

Dear March - Come in -

How glad I am -
I hoped for you before -
Put down your Hat -
You must have walked -
How out of Breath you are -
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest -
Did you leave Nature well -
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me -
I have so much to tell -

I got your Letter, and the Birds -

The Maples never knew that you were coming -
I declare - how Red their Faces grew -
But March, forgive me -
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue -
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you -

Who knocks? That April -

Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued -
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied -
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame –

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Poem 8: Why do they shut Me out of Heaven?

Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven?

Did I sing—too loud?
But—I can say a little 'Minor'
Timid as a Bird!

Wouldn't the Angels try me—

Just—once—more—
Just—see—if I troubled them—
But don't—shut the door!

Oh, if I—were the Gentleman

In the 'White Robe'—
And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—
Could—I—forbid?

Poem 9: Nature the Gentlest Mother Is

Nature the gentlest mother is,

Impatient of no child,
The feeblest of the waywardest.
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill

By traveller be heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation

A summer afternoon,
Her household her assembly;
And when the sun go down,

Her voice among the aisles

Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep,

She turns as long away
As will suffice tolight her lamps,
Then bending from the sky

With infinite affection

An infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.