Эмили Дикинсон. Один слог

Спасибо, Владимир! 
Идея - более чем достойная, и "упрощение" в данном случае таковым и не выглядит, но представляется особым взглядом, - и очень острым по сути. 
Рад Вашему визиту и такому творческому отзыву! 
С уважением,
К.Ъ.

Константину Еремееву
Сердечно благодарю за Вашу добрую реакцию на
 моё вмешательство. Эмили Дикинсон - великая поэтесса. Каждое её слово - на вес золота. И мы - как старатели -  пытаемся обнаружить эти блестящие крупинки.
ВК

Валентин, приветствую!
Загадки не мои. Но, действительно, интересные. А тут именно такой случай, когда без подсказки не разберёшься. Вот статейка, которая "помогла" мне в каком-то смысле разобраться. Потому как, даже зная английские слова, иной человек мало чего поймёт. Или поймёт совсем нет так, как имелось в виду (хотя и в этом тоже есть своя правда). Поэзия, такая вещь... %)... ты и сам знаешь. Короче, вот статья. Внизу ссылка. Но там хитрый сайт- нужна регистрация. Однако можно зарегистрироваться бесплатно с лимитом 20 статей в месяц. Что я и сделал.

Could mortal lip divine

(The Epoch Times)

Could mortal lip divine
The undeveloped Freight
Of a delivered syllable
‘Twould crumble with the weight.

Can we ever really know the meaning of our words? In this poem by Emily Dickinson, so terse it reads more like a maxim or a witty paradox, sound and sense are a mystery we try to “divine” at our peril. To “divine” means to discover by magic or intuition, suggesting ultimate truth cannot be intellectually grasped, but only mystically glimpsed.

Before we veer off and become too abstract, however, Dickinson brings us back to earth, drawing her primary metaphor for the business of words from business. She compares the intended significance of a word to the “freight” on a train or ship, which is “delivered” by each syllable, as if by the mailman clutching his bundle of letters. (Which is all a word is, after all.) The term “delivered” also implies salvation, though this hope seems dashed at the end.

What does the final line suggest? Maybe, if meaning were to be found, it would simply be too much for the poor addled human mind. The truth, far from liberating us, would crush us with its immensity. Our body would be physically rent. If this is the case, then our lives are necessarily ones of plodding half-incomprehension, and we should be glad of it. The tone here is not tragic, but blackly humorous. We must laugh at our condition.

It’s worth pondering, however, on why the “freight,” the precious cargo, is “undeveloped.” Perhaps there is no singular, final truth and all human life rests on nothing more than confusion? The “weight” would therefore refer to our knowledge of an essential lack at the heart of life—a reality that snuffs out our transcendent aspirations. Perhaps, on the other hand, if the universe is protean, this frees us to imagine new possibilities, new selves.

I can only hazard a guess. Like the “freight,” Dickinson’s poem is both complete and undeveloped, a riddle that promises revelation, but escapes our full comprehension. In trying to achieve a coherent reading we enact the very drama of meaning the poem describes.

https://www.theepochtimes.com/reading-emily-dickinson_1527198.html

Новых интересных открытий тебе! И вдохновения!
Дружески,
К.Ъ.