A light exists in spring

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We haven’t had a poem on this blog for a while, so I feel it’s time we did.  I dreamed last night that someone was changing my punctuation.  This dream editor was going to it with a black pen.  “NO!”, I screamed, “leave it the way I’ve written it”.  Freud can go take a running jump as far as my dreams are concerned.  I analyse them in connection to what happened in my day time.  Just before I’d gone to bed, I’d decided to select a poem to put on here.  I’d picked up Emily Dickinson’s poems and by one of those wonderful coincidences found a new poem that said all I wanted to say.  I once read a newspaper article about Emily’s poems and how they were edited ruthlessly after her death.  Though sympathetic restoration work has since been undertaken, I always wonder when reading them what has been cut.  That is why I dreamed of the black corrections.  In case you are itching to edit my blog today, my ego wants to tell you that I’ve written this one “raw” straight out of my head, so there!

 

poem 59 – Emily Dickinson

 

A light exists in spring

   Not present on the year

At any other period

   When March is scarcely here

 

A color stands abroad

    On solitary hills

That science cannot overtake,

   But human nature feels.

 

It waits upon the lawn;

   It shows the furthest tree

Upon the furthest slope we know;

   It almost speaks to me.

 

Then, as horizons step,

   Or noons report away,

Without the formula of sound,

   It passes, and we stay:

 

A quality of loss

   Affecting our content,

As trade had suddenly encroached

    Upon a sacrament.

 

 

I wish all my readers a lovely Easter time whatever your creed.  Sorry no picture today, it might be just words for a while.

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