Στη φόρα 9

 

auf und ab

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There's a certain slant of light,

winter afternoons – 

that oppresses, like the heft

of cathedral tunes – 

heavenly hurt, it gives us – 

we can find no scar,

but internal difference,

where the meanings, are – 

none may teach it – any – 

'tis the seal despair – 

an imperial affliction

sent us of the air – 

when it comes, the landscape listens – 

shadows – hold their breath – 

when it goes, 'tis like the distance

on the look of death – 

E. Dickinson