Its Hour with itself by Emily Dickinson
не выкажет наш дух.
Вот страх бы улицу умчал,
вскрывая лица вслух...
Подполен этот груз
для погребов души...
И славен Бог, что шумный дом
дал правом тихо жить.
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Its Hour with itself by Emily Dickinson
Its Hour with itself
The Spirit never shows.
What Terror would enthrall the Street
Could Countenance disclose
The Subterranean Freight
The Cellars of the Soul --
Thank God the loudest Place he made
Is licensed to be still.
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