Плачът е нещо незначително - въздишката - е нещо дребно. Но от товаря им натрупан човек умира постепенно. превод : Цветан Стоянов - Emily Dickinson

Unto my Books-so good to turn-
Far ends of tired Days-
It half endears the Abstinence-
And Pain-is missed-in Praise-

As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests
With Banquettings to be-
So Spices-stimulate the time
Till my small Library-

It may be Wilderness-without-
Far feet of failing Men-
But Holiday-excludes the night-
And it is Bells-within-

I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor-in Prospective-
And satisfy-obtained-

Pain - has an Element of Blank
It cannot recollect
When it begun - or if there were
a time when it was not -
It has no Future - but itself -
Its Infinite contain
Its Past - enlightened to perceive
New Periods - of Pain.

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.