di Emily Dickinson (Amherst, 1830 – Amherst, 1886)
Al giardino non l’ho ancora detto –
Non vorrei essere preda dell’emozione.
All’Ape non ho avuto ancora
La forza di comunicarlo … https://cctm.website/emily-dickinson-al-giardino-non-lho-ancora-detto/
#EmilyDickinson #poesia #cctmwebsite #anoipiaceleggere #leggere
‘Dear March—Come In—’ by Emily Dickinson
#poem #poetry #english #literature #emilydickinson
https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/emily-dickinson-poem-dear-march-come-in
Hope by
Emily Dickinson-
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard and sore must be the storm that could abash the little Bird that kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea yet never in extremity, it asked a crumb of me.
Success is counted sweetest;
By those who ne’er succeed.
— Emily Dickinson
Agi: 8 Marzo, Malika Ayane canta The Morns are Meeker Than They Were, poesia Emily Dickinson al Quirinale
AGI/Vista - Malika Ayane brani musicali “The Morns Re Meeker Than They Were” alla cerimonia per l'8 marzo al Quirinale. Il testo è una poesia di Emily Dickinson. Quirinale Fonte: Agenzia Vista / Alexander Jakhnagiev
March 8th, Malika Ayane sings “The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were,” poetry by Emily Dickinson at the Quirinal Palace.
AGI/Vista - Malika Ayane performs musical pieces “The Morns Re Meeker Than They Were” at the ceremony for International Women’s Day at the Quirinal Palace. The text is a poem by Emily Dickinson. Quirinal Palace Source: Agenzia Vista / Alexander Jakhnagiev
#MalikaAyane #TheMornsAreMeeker #EmilyDickinson #theQuirinalPalace #QuirinalPalace
Marzo: mese d’attesa.
Le cose che ignoriamo
E le persone del nostro presagio
Sono in cammino ... https://cctm.website/emily-dickinson-marzo/https://cctm.website/emily-dickinson-marzo/
Marzo è il mese dell’attesa di Emily Dickinson
#EmilyDickinson #marzo #poesia #cctmwebsite #anoipiaceleggere #leggere
Dear March -Come in by Emily Dickinson
Welcome to Rebecca’s Reading Room. This is a quiet place where poems are read slowly, not for answers, but for companionship. Here, we return to familiar voices not to explain them away, but to listen again, to notice what they say differently as we ourselves change. In this room, poems are not relics or assignments. They are guests. They arrive when they are ready, carrying something meant for us now.
Today, I invite you to sit with a poem by Emily Dickinson, a poem that opens a door rather than making a declaration, and welcomes a season as one might welcome a friend.
Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
Emily Dickinson opens this poem not with observation, but with welcome. March is not a date on a calendar or a meteorological shift. It is a visitor at the door. Slightly breathless. Hat still on. Carrying news.
“Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—”
Spring, in Dickinson’s hands, does not arrive polished or triumphant. It arrives on foot. This is the season before certainty, before colour fully commits itself, before the world decides what it will become. March is effort, movement, intention, not yet ease. She asks after March as one would ask after a friend returning from a long journey:
Dear March, Come In“Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—”
There is tenderness here, and curiosity. Even Nature, Dickinson suggests, was not fully prepared.
“The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—”
The image is quietly delightful: trees blushing, caught unaware. Colour arrives before announcement. Before readiness.
“There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—”
March has borrowed the colours we expect later. Spring, at this moment, is promise rather than fulfilment. Hints rather than declarations. Then, inevitably, another knock at the door.
“Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—”
How refreshing this refusal feels. April, so often celebrated, must wait. Dickinson is occupied with March, with conversation, with the delicate work of transition. This poem honours the in-between, the threshold season that asks nothing of us except attention. The closing lines deepen the poem’s quiet wisdom:
“That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—”
March brings balance. It strips judgement of its urgency. Once this guest has arrived, trifles fall away. What matters is presence, not verdict.
“Dear March—Come in—” reminds us that some moments should not be rushed or improved upon. Some seasons are meant to be welcomed, sat with, listened to. March is not yet bloom, not yet abundance, but it is essential. Without it, nothing else follows. March has come in. The door is closed to haste. And upstairs, there is still so much to tell.
Until the next page turns,
Rebecca
https://youtu.be/KUsRgMuXJPk?si=AeVmOg3hv2iQGIrD
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—
Dear March – Come In by Emily Dickinson – Rebecca's Reading Room
#EmilyDickinson #March #PoetryRecitation #PoetrySalon #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Sprng
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