Читать книгу Dickinson: The Complete Works - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 109

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The sun kept setting, setting still;

No hue of afternoon

Upon the village I perceived, —

From house to house 't was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;

No dew upon the grass,

But only on my forehead stopped,

And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,

My fingers were awake;

Yet why so little sound myself

Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!

I could not see it now.

'T is dying, I am doing; but

I'm not afraid to know.