Who Giants know, with lesser Men

Who Giants know, with lesser Men
Are incomplete, and shy—
For Greatness, that is ill at ease
In minor Company—

A Smaller, could not be perturbed—
The Summer Gnat displays—
Unconscious that his single Fleet
Do not comprise the skies—

     -Fr848, J796, Fascicle 38, 1864

Do you think this poem is more in praise of the gnat or the giant? 

I think you could make an argument for either here. The argument for the gnat would be something like this. The Giant is portrayed as “incomplete” and “ill at ease,” while the gnat is depicted as self-sufficient and untroubled. Even though its “single Fleet / Do not comprise the skies,” it is “unconscious” of this lack, which comes across as freedom. The gnat isn’t weighed down by its scale.

But Dickinson is keenly aware of scale. On on level that's what this poem is about. I believe she is saying here that it's better to be perturbed than to be small-minded.

If we stopped after “Giants know, with lesser Men / Are incomplete,” we might think, ah, this is arrogance. Greatness can’t bear to mix with the small. But in the next line we get a qualifier, “and shy— / For Greatness, that is ill at ease / In minor Company—”

That “shy” changes everything. Arrogance would trumpet itself. Shyness withdraws. That “shy” suggests that Greatness is aware of disparity.  The Giant’s shyness can be read as self-awareness and humility.

For Dickinson, being “ill at ease” is often a mark of depth. The Giant’s shyness and ill-at-ease-ness are what make it great. That reframes the poem for me. True greatness isn’t loud self-assurance but the capacity to be unsettled. It's hard to understand why a Giant would feel insecure, but if you see insecurity as a sign of sensitivity, it starts to make sense. That is the insight of this poem.

The second stanza reifies this contrast. The Smaller (gnat) isn’t shy at all. But that’s not presented as noble confidence. It’s comic. The gnat doesn’t even realize its tiny fleet “Do not comprise the skies.” Its fearlessness comes from obliviousness, not virtue.

At first glance, the gnat seems admirably self-contained and unbothered, soaring along without concern. That could be read as a kind of independence. But Dickinson slyly undercuts the ideal of independence. The gnat’s composure comes not from wisdom but from unconsciousness. It doesn’t know how small it is. Its calm is ignorance.

Often smallness is something Dickinson champions. But here “Smaller” is pejorative. It refers to the “small-minded,” the one too oblivious to feel consequence. The gnat has a Napoleon complex. It’s “unperturbed,” but only because it doesn’t realize how tiny its fleet really is. Its confidence is shallow.


         -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


Notes: This poem reminded me right away of another Gnat/Giant pairing, Fr707:

Size circumscribes—it has no room
For petty furniture—
The Giant tolerates no Gnat
For Ease of Gianture—

Repudiates it, all the more—
Because intrinsic size
Ignores the possibility
Of Calumnies—or Flies.

These two poems illuminate each other.

In the poem under discussion, Fr848, the contrast between giant and gnat is about awareness. Greatness feels uneasy in small company, while smallness is unperturbed only because it doesn’t know better.

In the earlier poem, the dynamic sharpens.

“Size circumscribes—it has no room / For petty furniture—”

Here, largeness is shown as self-sufficient. True greatness doesn’t need adornments.

“The Giant tolerates no Gnat / For Ease of Gianture—”

Greatness doesn’t accommodate small-mindedness, not because it’s threatened but because it’s above being troubled by it.

“Repudiates it, all the more— / Because intrinsic size / Ignores the possibility / Of Calumnies—or Flies.”

Here largeness asserts itself more confidently. Its sheer “intrinsic size” makes slander (calumny) or other little annoyances (flies) irrelevant. Greatness doesn’t need to defend itself. 

In the later poem Greatness is ill at ease, which is a sign of its nobility. Smallness, by contrast is oblivious. In the earlier poem, Greatness is not uneasy. It’s serene and self-contained. Petty irritants simply don’t matter. Smallness here is cast as nuisance or slander, irrelevant next to intrinsic magnitude.

The earlier poem highlights greatness’s calm equanimity in the face of the petty. The later poem shows greatness’s humility and depth of feeling in the face of disparity.

When the two poems are read together there is a more complete picture. The great ones humbly transcend small-minded arrogance, but also, they do they get caught up in pettiness.

 

Her final Summer was it—

Her final Summer was it—
And yet We guessed it not—
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought

A further force of life
Developed from within—
When Death lit all the shortness up
It made the hurry plain—

We wondered at our blindness
When nothing was to see
But Her Carrara Guide post—
At Our Stupidity—

When duller than our dullness
The Busy Darling lay
So busy was she—finishing—
So leisurely—were We—


     -Fr847, J795, Fascicle 38, 1864

I asked the poet Juliana Spahr if she would care to comment on this poem as a guest blogger for Prowling Bee and she graciously said yes. I thought of Juliana when I read this poem because of the line "If tenderer industriousness." It reminded me of her internet handle, "King Tender." You can check out some of Spahr's poems on the Poetry Foundation website. She has several terrific books available too. I recommend them all. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Here's Juliana's post on Fr846:

This is an elegy of sorts. Many elegies, as they remember the dead, move from lament to consolation. But this poem instead focuses on the narrator’s inability to recognize the death that was to come. Still an elegy, just one that is about the human tendency to deny or overlook death.

The first stanza is about how no one realized it was “her final Summer.” It uses anastrophe to express this delayed recognition. “Her final Summer” arriving before the verb that calls it into being. The guess of “We guessed” showing up before its negation. The “Tender industriousness” before she was “Pervaded.” And if the first stanza is considered in isolation, then it looks like “We thought” is possibly about the “tenderer industriousness” that “Pervaded Her,” yet another anastrophe.

Then the second stanza breaks this anastrophe as it describes the “further force of life” that death exposed. Death becomes a metaphor, a source of light that reveals the truth, one that makes “the hurry plain,” or clearly exposes.

The third stanza has the bereaved examining their blindness now that death has arrived and shed some light on the whole situation. In the third line of this stanza there is another metaphor of sorts. Dickson calls the tombstone a “Carrara Guide post.”

Metaphors open up poems, require readers to make some connections on their own. They delight most when they combine two things to make a third thing. Here, Carrara is combined with Guide to describe post. And this post, or tombstone, reminds us of our stupidity, makes clear what we would not see before.

This one also opens up the poem’s myopic attention. Suddenly, a location: Carrara. Marble has been excavated from Carrara, Italy for thousands of years. The Pantheon is made from Carrara marble. Michelangelo’s David and the Pieta also. Carrara marble is prized for being white, fine-grained, easily polished, bright in other words. Soft too, so soft that acid rain dissolves it. It is rarely used for ordinary tombstones, especially in the US. Granite, weather-resistant, durable, dull gray is more common. So here, another moment of light made by death. Then, a “Guide”... The capitalization allows it to be a title, as in describing a possible “Guidebook to Carrara.” This imaginary book might describe how to tour the quarries, might illuminate the anarchist history of the area, might highlight the difficult and dangerous labor of working in the quarries. This history is, of course, not in the poem. But it is there as a sort of ghost.

The last stanza has “the Busy Darling” lying in state. And reminds that she worked all summer, while we all relaxed. It is possible to read that last line--“So leisurely—were We—”--as yet another anastrophe. But it also makes sense to read it as aposiopesis, a thought left incomplete, that implies that we have so much guilt about enjoying our summer that to articulate its pleasures would be a violation. Traditional elegies move toward acceptance. This one stays suspended in guilt, refuses to articulate the leisures of summer to pursue an honesty about the disorientating moment when death is arriving and we are refusing to see it.

I had a friend recently die. They seemed to know they were going to die and kept saying goodbye and I kept telling them that while we all die, they were far from death. I kept insisting that we had much time left to really say goodbye, we did not need to do it that day. I am not sure what I would have done differently if I had been willing to admit that they might die. I have wrestled with how unfathomable I have found the death of a friend.

My blindness. My stupidity. This poem describes these things. But it does not tell us what to do with them. It neither absolves nor condemns. Instead, it describes.

      -Juliana Spahr

Thank you, Juliana, for the Carrara Guide post. Readers, if anything above resonates, please leave a comment. 

A Drop fell on the Apple Tree—

A Drop fell on the Apple Tree—
Another—on the Roof—
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—
And made the Gables laugh—

A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—
What Necklaces could be—

The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—
The Birds jocoser sung—
The Sunshine threw his Hat away—
The Bushes— spangles flung—

The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—
And bathed them in the Glee—
The Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the fête away—

    -Fr846, J794, Fascicle 38, 1864

Sometimes rain is seen as a drag, a destroyer of picnics and ender of ballgames, but in Dickinson it's the life of the party, the belle of the ball. The letter-downer has become the lifter-upper. 

This poem starts just like the rain does, with a single "Drop," which falls on the Apple Tree. Like many lines of Dickinson, this one could be taken alone as a fragment and still have an aura to it. Somehow from that one drop comes apples, and, by extension, all of the fruit in the world. Then there is all of that metaphoric weight to apple trees, especially in the Judeo-Christian mythology of the Garden of Eden. And yet it is also just a single drop of water falling on, ostensibly, a real apple tree.

The second line has metaphoric weight too. Another drop falls on the "Roof." The roof offers protection and there you are, under it, dry. The poet Marie Howe, who won the Pulitzer prize for poetry last year, has an entire poem exploring just this idea of the comfort a tree offers us in protection from the rain. It’s a feeling unto itself.

When the rain comes it starts drop by drop, and then suddenly there are half a dozen. The third line,

A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—

turns this poem in an orgy of sorts. We have a sudden multiplicity of kissers and kissees. Note the pun of Eaves/Eves here. Coming so soon after “apple tree” it seems likely that Dickinson is playing on the biblical Eve here. The line is transgressive, triply so. First there is the idea of the “fall of man” and all this entails. And, moreover, there is the reveling in the sudden wet soddenness of this fall, and finally, we note, there is no Adam, just Eves!

The final line of the first stanza adds to the merry mirth of the poem. 

And made the Gables laugh—

The rain brings the party, one that will soon become replete with hats and pearl necklaces, with the singing and flinging of spangles.

This joy of laughter leads us to the second the stanza,

A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—

The single drop of this poem has made a difference. It has helped the brook help the sea. What a beautiful way to show us what one drop of wet effort may do in this world to be of service. 

We’ve quickly moved from a drop of water to a half dozen drops to a brook to an entire ocean.

Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—

What Necklaces could be—

These lines recall one of my all time favorite Dickinson poems, Fr597, “Tis little I — could care for Pearls —/ Who own the Ample sea —” In both poems there is the idea that the glories of nature outshine the most expensive jewelry. The comparison helps us see the beauty of the raindrops with new eyes.

The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—

“Hoisted roads” is an intriguing phrase. Why is the road hoisted? It could mean that the dust that had risen (had been hoisted up) is now settled again. But it might also mean that the road has been lifted up by the addition of the rain, a kind of rejuvenation. This second meaning is more in keeping with the lifting of spirits that pervades the rest of the poem. At any rate, it seems like the rain has stopped now. The dust has settled and...

The Birds jocoser sung—

The rain has now stopped and the birds perk up and sing with a bit more spirit. Jocoser is a fun word and fits the vibe of the poem. The sun has now come out, and

The Sunshine threw his Hat away—

The personification in this poem is really helping me see things in a new way. I’ve never thought of the sound of rain on a roof as laughter before. And I’ve never thought of the sun coming out from under a cloud as the sunshine throwing its hat away. I love that the sun doesn’t just put his hat down. He throws it away. It is act of being carefree, like a new graduate throwing her hat after graduation.

The Bushes— spangles flung—

I think it must be the sun that is flinging the spangles on the bush. The sun, peeking out from the clouds, is shining on the wet leaves of the bush. It is as if the bushes are wearing gowns that sparkle in the sunlight.

The sound of the word “spangle” is echoed throughout the poem, in apple, gable, single, flag, flung, glee and even in necklaces and replaced. It’s as if the poem itself were spangled with all those L sounds following consonants.

The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—

And bathed them in the Glee—

The breezes have a sad music in them, "dejected Lutes." This line, perhaps, brings us to the reader of the poem, or even the writer. A breeze has brought our dejected selves to this poem, but this poem has bathed us in glee of rain.

 

We can begin to see what the one drop might represent in the poem, or, rather, that this poem represents a drop. This poem lifts us up through its spirit. It may be just a drop, but it becomes part of the brook leading us to a sea of pearls. Our dust is more settled. Our dejected songs have been bathed in glee.

The Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the fête away—

The sun has started to set and the flag of the sunset is now upon the reader, signalling that the party is over. We fall asleep, lifted into dreams.

It's a wonderful way to start Fascicle 38. 


        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

We can but follow to the Sun—

We can but follow to the Sun—
As oft as He go down
He leave Ourselves a Sphere behind—
'Tis mostly—following—

We go no further with the Dust
Than to the Earthen Door—
And then the Panels are reversed—
And we behold—no more.


       -Fr845, J920, Sheet 4, 1864


I dreamt last night that I only had a few days left to live. There was an absolute finality to this, but it was an eerily calm one. I realized when I woke up that reading this poem before bed must have been the catalyst for the dream.

That sense of the finality of death is always with us, even though some of us are more in denial about it than others. We soothe ourselves with ideas of the afterlife, or through distractions and a hundred other ways.

This poem brings us back to the hard truth. Whatever may be on the other side of that “Earthen Door,” we cannot know for sure. The panels are reversed and we “behold—no more.”

But this poem begins by telling us that, in the meantime, "we can but follow the Sun." 

The Beatles agree

We can but follow to the Sun—
As oft as He go down
He leave Ourselves a Sphere behind—
'Tis mostly—following—

That first line points in an uplifting, life affirming direction, the Sun. But with typical Dickinsonian irony there is a some resignation, maybe even some defeat in that, "We can but..." We don't really have a choice, do we? But hey, at least for now we can.

By the second stanza of this poem we no longer can follow the Sun. We have entered back into the earth, to "behold no more." 

This poem may work best read backwards. I recently had a conversation with the gentlemen who put on the fantastic podcast "Old Poems for New People" and we talked about how Dickinson often has to be read both forwards and backwards to be understood. This poem is a good example. When you get to the end of it, you have to turn around again and go back to that first line.

There are a few different ways to read the first stanza. The word "sphere" itself is interesting. It can be taken literally. We do follow the disappearance of the sun with our own disappearance into unconsciousness when we sleep. Our circadian rhythms take us to sleep just as “oft” as the sun goes down. We are left behind in a literal sphere of darkness.  

But of course "sphere" can have other meanings of a more meytaphysical nature. It's an important word for Dickinson, as it aligns with her poetics, her business of "Circumference."

The Sun can have extra-literal meanings too. It is the source of light, after all, which can be seen in many different hues and shades. The Sun can also be a pun for Son of God, a frequent visitor to the poems of Emily Dickinson. The Son going down would then be the crucifixion. We can but follow...'tis mostly following.

The word "mostly" is resonant here too. What does it mean "'Tis mostly following?" I can think of a few different possible meanings here. One is that even though we mostly get up to follow the sun, sometimes we can't be bothered. Another intriguing possibility is that though we mostly follow the Sun, sometimes one may actually lead it. ("I passed the Sun// Or rather he passed me.")

The second stanza is more final. Here we compare the end of life with the end of the day, as put forward in the first stanza. There is no “mostly” in this one. Most of us go to sleep at night, but all of us die.

We go no further with the Dust
Than to the Earthen Door—
And then the Panels are reversed—
And we behold—no more.

The wonder is that we are able to go as far as we have with the dust at all. From dust to dust goes the old saying, yet so much depends upon the “to” between dust and dust. Still, when we get to that final door in the earth, the grave, the door locks behind us. Or, as Dickinson imaginatively puts it, “the Panels are reversed—/ and we behold—no more."

Just as there is so much in the "to" between dust and dust, so is there a world in that verb “behold.”

In one of Emily Dickinson's letters she writes, “I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.” The word "behold" is a good one to hold up and look at until it begins to shine. Behold the word “Behold.” It can mean to pay attention to or to be in awe of or to wonder about or just simply to hold, as in, to love. 

Beyond reminding us that we have this one life, though, there is also in this poem a kind of resignation as discipline, an acceptance that following is “mostly” what life amounts to. We are followers of the sun, followers of the dead. That sober acceptance is its own kind of truth.

Is there any consolation in this poem beyond what we have in the present? Well, if every death poem ended with consolation, the consolation would cheapen. By refusing it here, Dickinson makes room for the mystery. This one simply records the boundary.

The point of this resignation is to hold us at the edge of the horizon, the coffin lid, and make us feel what it is to be left behind. Rather than filling the silence with dogma or false comfort, Dickinson insists on the stark experience of mortality, then no more.

But if we read the poem front to back she does leave us with that one shining thing we can do for now. We can but follow the Sun.

Behold!

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

This Merit hath the worst—

This Merit hath the worst—
It cannot be again—
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown Her furthest Stone—

The Maimed may pause, and breathe,
And glance securely round—
The Deer attracts no further
Than it resists—the Hound—

    -Fr844, J979, Sheet 4, 1864

When you read the first line in isolation, you think about the possible merit of "the worst." Is there merit in dealing with the worst? In 1862 Dickinson wrote to T.W. Higginson that she had had a great terror that she could tell to no one. That same year she wrote 366 poems, whereas the year before, 1861, she wrote about 80. The uptick in production seems to be tied to the “terror.” So the terror of Emily Dickinson’s "worst" at least had the Merit of being grist for great poetry.

But once you read the next line of the poem, you realize that the line is saying something darker. 

This Merit hath the worst—
It cannot be again—

The "Merit" of the worst is that it can’t happen again. 

When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown Her furthest Stone—

The Maimed may pause, and breathe,
And glance securely round—

When fate has thrown its furthest stone, or, dealt its worst blow, then the maimed may finally breathe and feel secure again. This is painful to read, especially once you have glimpsed the possible circumstances behind this poem. Once fate (overpowering force) has done its worst, what more can it do? The worst is over. It can never be that bad again. Cold comfort. 

The circumstances that I refer to here, to be blunt, is rape. I'm loathe to bring the subject up, as it is horrible to contemplate, but I feel that it must be reckoned with. There are two reasons why I believe this poem may refer to sexual assault. The first one is because this poem was written on the same sheets of paper as Fr841, a poem which I find it difficult not to read as an account of rape. You can go back and read the comments on that poem for a further explication. Suffice to say here that the poem at hand carries three words over from that poem, "furthest," “stone” and “maimed.” The two poems' shared word choice and subject matter are enough to link the two together in my mind. 

The second reason can be seen in the final two lines of this poem,

The Deer attracts no further
Than it resists—the Hound—

The Deer and the Hound is a classic predator/prey metaphor. In a hunting context, the deer is chased until it collapses. In a human context, this easily maps onto sexual predation. The victim is pursued, the predator relentless.

This line tells us that the deer only attracts the hound as much as it resists. This suggests that the predator is stimulated precisely by resistance. Once the prey stops resisting, the pursuit ends. This is disturbingly close to the dynamics of sexual assault where the act itself is bound with power.

The poem, then, can be read as a trauma narrative in miniature. The worst arrives. It maims. But its merit, if that word can even stand, is that once endured, it cannot recur. The survivor breathes again, altered but alive. And in the grim arithmetic of violence, resistance draws pursuit, while collapse offers the only release.

Dickinson’s genius here is to lay all of this on the line, while at the same time refusing to let the poem settle. She could well be speaking of the general catastrophes of fate; death, illness, etc. Yet the language makes room for another kind of fate which is less speakable, the experience of predation, of being hunted and subdued. 

I should say that I'm not convinced that Dickinson did undergo sexual assault, and it still seems unthinkable. But I also see now that it is plausible, and if so, she has much to say to others that have been through a similar ordeal. 

If it is true, then the poem’s double valence (existential fate and predation) allows her to speak across taboo boundaries while still preserving deniability, and, at the same time, it also gives readers room to interpret the poem to fit their own circumstances. 

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Wounded Deer, by Frida Kahlo. 

In the lower left corner is written the word "Carma," 

which may be translated as "Fate."

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon—

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon—
The Flower—distinct and Red—
I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in its stead

Will equal glow, and thought no More
But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared—
The Same Locality—

The Sun in place—no other fraud
On Nature's perfect Sum—
Had I but lingered Yesterday—
Was my retrieveless blame—

Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking its Resemblance—
But unapproached it stands—

The single Flower of the Earth
That I, in passing by
Unconscious was—Great Nature's Face
Passed infinite by Me—

    -Fr843, J978, sheet 3, 1864

I'm always delighted to come across one of Emily Dickinson’s flower poems. They often seem to have a floral quality to them, as if the poem itself was a kind of flower.  A signature gift that Emily liked to send to her friends was a flower from her garden accompanied with a corresponding poem. In the case of this poem however, I suspect there was no accompanying flower, seeing as to how the flower in the poem has been passed by. Perhaps the poet was emphasizing to some friend that, like the flower in this poem, she took her for granted. In that case this poem would have been sent by itself, perhaps accompanied by an empty ribbon tie.

Judith Farr, in her book “The Gardens of Emily Dickinson,” clues us in that the flower in question here was probably the Hemerocallis or ‘Day-Lily,’ whose flower lasts for one day only, often dropping in the noonday heat.

Hemerocallis, or Day-Lily

Though this may, indeed, be the flower Dickinson was thinking of, for the poet it becomes emblematic for life itself.

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon—

The first line of this poem makes it seem as if what blooms and then drops is noon itself, and not just any noon, but a "Single Noon," which, in poetry parlance, means the Single Noon of your life. Your middle years would be the noon of your life. The Single Noon of your life blooms and then drops.

The Flower—distinct and Red—

The Flower that blooms and drops, then, is the Self, or the Beloved. Since both of these become the reader of the poem, we will refer to the flower as "You." Like the Day-lily, you are distinct, one of a kind, and Red too in the red-blooded vigor and red-flushed cheeks of youth.

I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in its stead

Will equal glow, and thought no More

You, passing through this life, thought there would be another flower of noon, that youth would last forever, that it would keep coming with “equal glow” and then you "thought no more." That "thought no more" is this poem’s wry way of telling us that maybe we should think about it some more. In other words, don’t mindlessly ignore the circumstances of your life.

But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared—

Alas, you are here today and gone tomorrow. This species called by your name comes but once.

The Same Locality—

The same place where you are now, you will someday no longer be.

The Sun in place—no other fraud
On Nature's perfect Sum—

The Sun and all the rest of nature will still be here. The only thing stolen (defrauded) from the total Sum will be you.

Had I but lingered Yesterday—
Was my retrieveless blame—

If I had only lingered Yesterday, says the poet, I would have truly experienced this Flower, but I didn’t and now it is “retrieveless.” 

The poem wants you to listen to this future self and avoid the same sad fate by lingering over the flowers of Today. It's a common theme in poetry. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," wrote Robert Herrick. “I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass,” wrote Walt Whitman, etc, etc.

We have no one to blame for missing the unique flower of life but ourselves.

The word blame carries some import here. Look at the way Dickinson uses rhyme to build up its emphasis. She moves from “bloomed” to “came," to “same,” to  “sum” and finally lands on “blame.”

Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking its Resemblance—

There are no flowers to replace the one that has been missed, for nothing resembles that one. This reminds me of the ending of Grace Paley’s heartbreaking story, “Samuel.”

“When the policeman knocked at the door and told her about (Samuel's death), Samuel’s mother began to scream. She screamed all day and moaned all night, though the doctors tried to quiet her with pills.

Oh, oh, she hopelessly cried. She did not know how she could ever find another boy like that one. However, she was a young woman and she became pregnant. Then for a few months she was hopeful. The child born to her was a boy. They brought him to be seen and nursed. She smiled. But immediately she saw that this baby wasn’t Samuel. She and her husband together have had other children, but never again will a boy exactly like Samuel be known.”

The fact that “much flowers” have perished in the poet's hands in search for a replacement is chilling. The replacement flowers were killed in the process of being pulled up and compared. Think about this in real world terms. In the passage from Samuel above, you can imagine the collateral damage Samuel’s siblings will suffer, since they will always be compared with Samuel. Or you might think about a widow who remarries, and the psychological burden of the new spouse who must always be compared to the original love.

But unapproached it stands—

Nothing can approach the singular beloved, the original flower. Though it is gone, still "it stands," ghost-like, an unapproachable specter.

The single Flower of the Earth
That I, in passing by
Unconscious was—

In the first line of this last stanza Dickinson phrases it as if it was the whole earth that was the flower which has been passed by. You were here, the poem implies, but you let this flower, your Single Noon, on this Single Earth, pass you by.  You went through this life, this one chance, "unconscious."

Great Nature's Face
Passed infinite by Me—

This day-lily, the very face of nature, your youth, the beloved, our time on earth, has passed you by, irretrievably, gone forever, “passed infinite by.”

Again, I say "You" because that is who the "I" of this poem is. “When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse – it does not mean – me – but a supposed person,” Dickinson wrote to T.W. Higginson. (L268)  You can see that idea in play in this poem. The “I” is a stand in for all of us, here. There is an admonition from the poet to herself, but also to all selves who inhabit the "I" of this poem, not to remain unconscious amidst the one-of-kind-for-one-time-only splendor of "Great Nature's Face."

        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Patience—has a quiet Outer—

Patience—has a quiet Outer—
Patience—Look within—
Is an Insect's futile forces
Infinites—between—

'Scaping one—against the other
Fruitlesser to fling—
Patience—is the Smile's exertion
Through the quivering—


      -Fr842, J962, sheet 3,  1864

This poem is a meditation on patience, but it's a bleak one. Patience does not help one overcome one's predicament in this poem. All one can do, it tells us, is attempt to smile through the ever worsening struggle. There is, however, immense grace in the effort.

The poem starts by letting us know that patience has a quiet Outer.  If someone is quiet, then that stillness may well be hiding an inner storm. It's interesting the way the adjective “outer” gets turned into a noun here. And it's almost a verb. Dickinson often weirds language to great effect.

The second use of the word "Patience," emphatically repeated in the second line, seems to be moving from definition to imperative. Because patience has a "quiet Outer" and is therefore hard to see, have patience! Look within. Look within here means look within yourself to find the fortitude, but also look within the quiet outer of the other. What you will see behind the smiling face before you may be someone engaged in an epic struggle.

Patience…
Is an Insect's futile forces
Infinites—between—

We are compared to an insect, and our struggles are like the tiny, restless motions of the insect as it is caught between two obstacles, like a fly trying to escape from a windowpane. 

Dickinson, through her signature hyperbole, makes the struggle appear even greater by pointing to those Infinites—between— our exertions.  When we are struggling, it is painful, but the moments of collapsed exhaustion between efforts can be even worse. When the “monster futility” (as Robert Smith of The Cure puts it) becomes too overbearing, time crawls to a stop and the moment feels infinite. Dickinson deals directly with this idea in another aphoristic two syllable poem, Fr833, “Pain — expands the Time —”

'Scaping one—against the other

Fruitlesser to fling—

The insect’s “futile forces” describe how it flings itself over and over in its attempt to escape, yet remains stuck, its efforts fruitless. Just as the insect struggles in vain between barriers, escaping one just to hit another, back and forth, so patience struggles between human suffering and endurance. Our exertions, our patience becomes more and more fruitless, “fruitlesser,” with each attempt. 

“Fruitlesser to fling.” That line has an onomatopoeic quality. It sounds like a fly flinging itself back and forth against the pane.

Patience—is the Smile's exertion
Through the quivering—

Here is the third mention of "patience," in this short poem, as if the poet is patiently remembering to invoke the word over and over again. This one offers us another definition. Patience—is the Smile's exertion. Patience is the effort of a smile.

There are two alternate words that Dickinson left us in the original MS sheet for the phrase "Smile's exertion." One is "Mouth's exertion," and the other is "Love's exertion." 

Sometimes all of the word choices Dickinson leaves us can work together to form a more complete poem. If it were "Mouth" here, instead of "Smile," I would take that to be a metonym for expression through poetry, or song. If it were "Love," that would be more abstract, but it would more clearly show the reason for such exertion. It clues us in that "Smile" is a product of Love here, not duty, or social pressure, just as "Mouth" tells us that this "Smile" is akin to the words sung by the poet. The music of this poem, its beauty, may be seen as Emily Dickinson's love, her smiling exertion through quivering pain. 

Once upon a time there was a bomb threat at my school. The teachers, including myself, were all afraid to go back into the classrooms, yet we tried our best to put on brave faces for the sake of the students. I remember having to physically force a comforting smile onto my face. And of course I've done the same for my children during times of illness. In the midst of heartbreak a smile can take everything you have. 

One takeaway for me here is to remember to be aware of the extreme difficulty that comes with “grace under pressure.” Yesterday, for instance, I watched a friend, one who used to be extremely impatient, shut his eyes and wait out a difficult situation. There was a time when he would have been screaming and freaking out in this same set of circumstances. This “exertion” on his part, which was only barely discernible to any observer, carried with it immense unseen struggles. And yet this kind of gargantuan effort, so often hidden from us, can make a huge difference in the lives of others. It's worth remembering this next time we find ourselves impatient with someone. The person we are dealing with may well be struggling with something far worse than we are. 

Though this poem carries a sense of hopelessness, it also carries grace in its small act of resistance. The smile in the poem, which is to say, its beauty, lifts us up, even as the poet herself may be going down.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff 

David Foster Wallace's commencement address, 

"This is water," presents a similar idea to this poem.

Notes: A study could be made of Dickinson's aphoristic poems. This poem is written in the form she most often used for her aphorisms; a two stanza structure in 4/3 hymn meter, often with a trochaic rhythm. Other examples of these include Fr835 and Fr879.

It's worth paying attention to the intricate internal rhythms of these poems, which are part of their hidden beauty, part of the exertion of their "smile."

This one's trochaic rhythm goes like this: 

BA dum BA dum BA dum BA dum

BA dum BA dum dum

BA dum BA dum BA dum BA dum

BA dum dum dum BA 

BA dum BA dum BA dum BA dum

BA dum dum dum BA

BA dum BA dum BA dum BA dum

BA dum BA dum dum

See the way the 2nd line's rhythm is repeated in the 8th, and the 4th line in the 6th? It's a subtle dance.  

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—
Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

Yet was not the foe—of any—
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me—afraid.

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.


        -Fr841, J925, Sheet 3, 1864


Dear Susan,

I cried this morning after reading and trying to make sense of Fr841. It was shocking when I realized that the poem must be an account of rape. Could this be the terror Emily referred to her in her letter to Higginson in 1862? "I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so I sing, as the boy does by the burying ground, because I am afraid."

It made me so sad. This poem is just heartbreaking when read in that light. And yet somehow it still carries beauty and redemption in the end. I did some research and came across a book called The Rape and Recovery of Emily Dickinson, which makes the further claim that it was her father. I scoffed. Emily loved and idolized her father, didn't she? There was an excerpt of the book and the more I read, from between my fingers, the more I wondered if the author could be right. If so, how terrible.

Anyway, not to be a downer, but I felt the need to commiserate.

Love, Adam

***

Dear Adam --

I returned last night from a short trip to visit friends in the Klamath mountains and do some hiking.

I only read a few emails because there was a host of them but of course I read yours. I want to thank you for thinking of me and sending the poem to me. It cut me as I read.

I wanted to write down my immediate thoughts to help me process it. So I did, and they follow. But Emily is so powerful that there is no 'making sense' of her work until it is lived with a while and allowed to penetrate (word choice purposeful) and percolate. But as your travel partner in her work I wanted to share my darting thoughts -- commiserating. There is such pain.

Last night:

Oh, this one hits hard. I've read it several times over and yes I cried out. I will be waiting to read your deliberations on it.

"Struck", "Maimed", and "Robbed" -- so harsh!

I then stumble through her loving the Cause that 'slew' her even as its 'beloved Recognition' chillingly holds a Sun on her ... Also unsettling here is the 'Often as I die' as if the Robbing, etc., is as regular as the Sun.
The end is... possibly, slightly possibly, a bit of dawning reassurance? She, like her slayer, is best at setting? A setting so deep that

Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes

More:

It's hard to know just what has happened -- by whom or for how long and, oh, just about everything in the poem. But as I write and re-read I'm thinking of Sue, of someone or even something (Poetry?) that so powerfully affects her that it is as if the 'Mansion' of her being is torn.

But how to process the horror of "Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—"? And the pathos of the 'Not the smallest Bird' stanza reinforcing the gentleness of the speaker, her harmlessness. She hasn't deserved or called forth any violence done her.

And yet ... the next stanza begins with 'Most': she most of all, more than anything said so far, loves what slew her (note past tense). Yet the slaying recurs. She notes that as she dies, and this now seems the climax of ecstatic sex, she has a deep recognition of the slayer who, in turn, holds "a Sun" on her as if the recognition is mutual.

This mirror/sun is best at "Setting" -- just as Nature's sun is (and why would that be?). Sunrise itself doesn't happen until both the speaker and the 'Cause' find the 'Infinite Aurora in each other's eyes. Maybe that is why the slayer and the slain are best at setting. That dawn of an infinite Aurora is more profound than the setting into night.

Complicating the poem is the change from first to third person in the last stanza.

Well, I've said to much without sufficient time to truly digest the poem and mull it about.

But it is shocking and powerful.

I'm reminded of an early commenter who on one poem and then a few afterwards (which ones I don't remember) said that the poems were clearly about sexual assault/rape. Each time I felt an agreement but was able to wiggle around it. Your comment about her father is even more shocking. I'm going to cogitate on that for a while.

Gotta to bed -- just got back from trip to Klamath Mts -- long and very beautiful drive home through steep mountains...

Love
Susan

ps: wonder what dreams will come...

***

Dear Susan,

Well, what dreams came?

Thank you for this. It helps. Yes, I do sometimes fail to give the poems enough time to "penetrate" before I write about them. 

This one may have "penetrated" too deeply, though, too quickly, without enough process to let the light in. I wrote about it right away, but probably won't keep much, if any, of what I put down. And it'll be a minute before I try again. Though I suppose I must. Like Emily I had to retreat. 

As you say, "how to process the horror of 'Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—?'  And the pathos of the 'Not the smallest Bird' stanza reinforcing the gentleness of the speaker, her harmlessness. She hasn't deserved or called forth any violence done her."  Your words made me wish you were writing this commentary and not I.

I can't read that word "intact" followed by the word "torn" without thinking of a deflowering. But it's very hard to read it as anything consensual. It sounds horrible. Struck is so violent. And to be left maimed?

That first stanza tells us that there was no time for "process." 

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

The lightning has "not yet" struck. This strike was something darker than lightning, a strike of anti-lightning. At least "Not yet" implies hope of illumination when lightning does, eventually, strike.

That "lets away" is telling too. Lightning lets away, unlike whatever monster overtook the narrator. Taking by force doesn't allow the Vitality of Process. It kills the love in its tracks. This poem should be required reading for all dumb boys.

There are a couple things in this poem that seem to point, unfortunately, to the unthinkable. The first one is the riddle set forward in the second stanza.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

 Subtle the way she switches that "not yet" in the first stanza to "yet not" here. Who is the enemy she asks after giving us a series of clues as to who it is not. It's not an emotionally-removed stolid boy who violated her with his "Stone." (Oh, the hint of anger in that doubtle ST sound, stemming from the first spit out "Struck" that onomatopoetically begins the poem.) It wasn't some hunter who was looking for sport. (She's spitting out the SP sound now, along with so many plosive Ps in the first two stanzas). So then who was it? If it wasn't a boy, it must've been an older man. And not a man who was undertaking a journey, on a venture, so...someone close to home? And not one doing it for the sport of the hunt, as per usual. So who does all of this point to?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—

The idea that she is intact to bandit, as in, connected to the bandit, and that it has torn her Mansion, as in The Dickinson Homestead, is troubling to me. There appears to be a double meaning to both "intact" and "mansion," the first pointing to herself, Mansion intact to bandit until it was torn, and the second pointing to the offender, to whom she was intact, and the Dickinson Mansion.

Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

The light inside of the poet can no longer shine like it once did, at least not out into the world. This is one of the most heartbreaking lines in the poem for me, especially if Emily felt the compulsion to keep back her poems from "recognition" by the public because of the repercussions of this trauma. "...I could tell to none." 

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

The Cause. God. Burglar Banker Father. The Prime Mover. This is the perpetrator. And just as "often as" It kills the poet, she hungers for Its beloved recognition. It's such a tragic bind.

Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.

I like your take on the slayer's cause being, like the Sun, best at setting because it is followed by the forgiveness of infinite auroras. (Not exactly what you said, but my take on it.) That makes sense to me. But also, if I am going to force myself to face it, there is the idea of the "setting" here of the Cause being best because one mellows with old-age, years later. It churns my stomach to write this. But it would be worse not to at least face the possibility, right? It's best to follow Emily's example. She takes us by the hand. I understood what you meant by wanting to wiggle around it though. I want to wiggle around it too. But Dickinson holds a sun on us, you might say. I also liked your way of putting it, that the setting is so deep that the sun can't rise again until the two witness the infinite aurora in each other's eyes. Lost in the auroras before sunrise. Is this Forgiveness or is it Escape?

I'm aware that this Father thing might well be a false trail. It's so easy with Dickinson to make clues fit a theory. And I really hope it isn't true. 

It does seem, as you pointed out, like the poem switches to the third person in this last stanza, "Neither (of them) witnessed Rise," but the syntax could also read in first person as, "Neither (of us) witnessed Rise." But hey, maybe a blending of first and third person is the point here? The two have to be understood as one for forgiveness to take place. Or rather forgiveness has to take place before the two can become one. 

A tremendous poem. It takes my breath away.

Though I still feel it, that sick feeling, I'm left less with shock and sadness than I was before in having processed through it again. The lightning has let the light in. The feeling I'm left with now is just an even deeper respect for Dickinson's bravery, her capacity to forgive, and admiration for those infinite auroras.

And now it's time for me to enter the same. Blessed sleep.

Good night, Susan.

P.S. But what about that white dress?

***

Dear Adam,

Dreams -- oddly, as you mention at the end of your email -- white dresses. Girls in white dresses (sang to the tune of 'Nights in white satin').

I thought of Austin right away but moved away from that. I think the idea of the Cause as God is very strong but then there's that last stanza– where speaker and Cause find the aurora, finally, in each other's eyes– that complicates the notion.

The penultimate stanza does, however, suggest God as Cause -- and especially if then it is God's Recognition, His Beloved Recognition, that shines like Sun on the battered recipient of His love. Reminds me of "He fumbles at your Soul" (F477) and also a bit of the 'White Heat' poem (F401). God is not an easy lover.

Anyway, enough of my meanderings. I do so much look forward to your commentary. This is a tough one... That "who is the Enemy" question seems key. The enemy must be grand and powerful -- capable of a Recognition that shines (and burns) like a sun. Someone that hurts but makes alive. That would be God, Father, and Sue.

But you bring a light yourself with "The lightning has let the light in. The feeling I'm left with now is just deeper respect for Dickinson's bravery, her capacity to forgive, and admiration for those infinite auroras."

Okay, direction to self. Stop. Stop!

Sleep well -
Susan

***

Dear Susan,

Good morning.

You wiggled around it. Bless you.

Dreams of white dresses. How about that!

Your bringing it back to the "key" question -"Who mine enemy?"- made me remember that the first time I read this I took that to mean that the poet had no enemy, which is the statement that she makes in stanza four: Yet was not the foe—of any— 

The poet had no enemies before the attack, but I think we are to understand that, remarkably, she had none afterward either.

Once the Sun has set and you see the infinite auroras in the other's eyes then there are no more enemies. The littlest bird in the orchard remains safe as can be. Dreams of white dresses...

What a perfect way for the poem, and life, to resolve. 

Thank you. I couldn't have gotten there without you.

With that in mind, Dear Susan, I have a daring proposition for you.

What if we post this dialogue as the commentary for the poem?

Hear me out. This poem, in particular, could use a woman's touch. A dialogue also exposes process, which, on one level, is what this poem is about. It's raw and illuminating, like a slow flash of lightning.

So what do you say, partner? I can hardly imagine it now without you.

Love,

 
Adam

***

Dear Adam,

I'm for the posting of it! The poem deserves it. I didn't find it in the indexes of my Dickinson books ... Go for it!

And top of the morning to you!

I gotta run -- full day of gardening today -- and a nice day for it, too.

Love,
Susan