You said that I “was Great” — one Day —

You said that I “was Great” — one Day —
Then “Great” it be — if that please Thee —
Or Small — or any size at all —
Nay — I’m the size suit Thee —

Tall — like the Stag — would that?
Or lower — like the Wren —
Or other heights of Other Ones
I’ve seen?

Tell which — it’s dull to guess —
And I must be Rhinoceros
Or Mouse —
At once — for Thee —

So say — if Queen it be —
Or Page — please Thee —
I’m that — or nought —
Or other thing — if other thing there be —
With just this Stipulus —
I suit Thee —


    - F736, J738, fascicle 35, 1863

To follow the psychological and philosophical dynamics of a poem such as this one is tricky. What exactly is being said?

Here is Emily being told by an admirer that she is Great. (And who would argue?) Emily, who seems to be immune to flattery, responds by saying that she’ll be Great if that’s what suits the adoring lover (or reader). But if another size suits, she’ll be that instead. She is as great or small as we need her to be. Is she being humble? She’s beyond humble, she’s “relative" to our needs, if we but knew what our needs were. Ironically, it is Dickinson's transcendence of the need to be Great that makes her so Great.

When told that she is “Great,” the poet makes a number of sly moves.

1. She starts by acknowledging that perception is tied into the desires of the perceiver. “You said that I “was Great” — one Day —/ Then “Great” it be — if that please Thee —”

2. The desire for Greatness stems from the lover, but the poet’s responding desire is to be whatever the lover wishes her to be, whatever pleases.

3. “Or Small — or any size at all —/ Nay — I’m the size suit Thee —” Here the poet subverts the compliment. She takes the idea of “greatness” and applies it to size instead of “worth.” In this way she’s is transcending the idea of worthiness. Great means, simply, large. The complimenter has been derailed. That’s not what they meant by “Great.”

4. Just in case we don’t get that she’s talking about size, Dickinson gives us some examples. Would you have me be tall like a stag? Would that do for you? Or would you prefer me small like a wren. This is a philosophical move. She has let us know that she can be any size that suits us, but she is also questioning the relative worth of sizes all together. Is a stag better than a wren just because it is taller?

5. Then in stanza two she makes another funny move. She says, “Tell which — it’s dull to guess —” Even though she’s subtly dismissed the relative worth of sizes, she’s still asking the lover/reader to be clear about what they want. Do you want me to be small or large, make up your mind. There is also a human quality in this statement. The poet is expressing a degree of vulnerability, as she has been left guessing. The implication here is that when we are not clear about our desires, we leave others hanging unfairly. I believe she saying something to the effect of, “You tell me I’m great, but then you ignore me. Which is it?" This tracks with a few other poems in Fascicle 35 in which Dickinson wonders why an unnamed friend is withholding their smile, including the poem just preceding this one, which contains the lines, “But what must be the smile/ Upon Her Friend she could confer/ Were such Her Silver Will —” 

6. “And I must be Rhinoceros/ Or Mouse —/At once — for Thee —” I take this as saying, “When you don’t let me know what you want from me I don't know whether to make myself small (recede in the background) or large. Since I'm willing to be whatever pleases you, the least you can do for me is to let me know what that is."

Here we run into the constant “problem” we have with interpreting Dickinson’s poetry. On one hand these poems are “personal,” and stem from her real-life circumstances and relationships. On the other, they are public and written for the general reader. In a letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, in 1862, Dickinson wrote, “When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse – it does not mean – me – but a supposed person” (L268)

So, in a poem like this one, we are getting a kind of philosophical treatise on relativism, but it is also being delivered from the standpoint of a real person dealing with a real-life situation. This makes it doubly valuable for us. For what would be the value of reading about a squabble between lovers without a dispassionate reflection. And on the flip side, what is the value of philosophical distancing without real world practicality? Thus, in the fine line between the two, we have the unique value of poetry.

7. “So say — if Queen it be —/ Or Page — please Thee —” In the fourth and final stanza Dickinson makes another move as she switches from talking about relative size to power dynamics. A Queen commands and a Page is a servant. (There is also some gender dynamics at play here, as a Page is traditionally male, but subservient to a Queen.) This is interesting in how it plays out in the poem itself. Dickinson is both playing the Page in this poem, “I’ll do whatever suits you, my Queen,” AND playing the Queen by demanding something of the lover/reader/page. She is asking for an assertion of will, but also is willing to be subservient to that will. Emily wants her lover/reader to be assertive about what they want. “It’s dull to guess.”

8. “I’m that — or nought —/ Or other thing — if other thing there be —/ With just this Stipulus —/ I suit Thee —” Though Dickinson is tired of guessing, she is very amenable to the lover/reader’s needs, if he/she would only be clear about them. She can be anything, or nothing ("nought,") either way is okay. She just has one stipulation, that it suits you. (And really, there is another implied stipulation here; that it works for you, and that you tell what works for you.)

Dickinson makes up a word here, “Stipulus.” I’m guessing she did this because "stipulation" didn’t fit the scansion of the poem. She does provide “requirement” as an alternative word in the original MS, but the made-up word is more fun. It suits me.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

a small wren astraddle

P.S. In looking up the letter to Higginson in which Dickinson speaks of her poetic voice as a "supposed person," I made a small discovery. In this same letter she also compares her (real) self to to a small wren, and asks if "this will do." So this letter may be a precursor to this very poem. Here is the letter in full:

"Could you believe me-without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur- and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves- Would this do just as well?

It often alarms Father-He says Death might occur, and he has Molds of all the rest- but has no Mold of me, but I noticed the Quick wore off those things, in a few days, and forestall the dishonor-You will think no caprice of me-

You said "Dark." I know the Butterfly-and the Lizard-and the Orchis -

Are not those your Countrymen?

I am happy to be your scholar, and will deserve the kindness, I cannot repay.

If you truly consent, I recite, now-

Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon, to commend - the Bone, but to set it, Sir, and fracture within, is more critical. And for this, Preceptor, I shall bring you-Obedience-the Blossom from my Garden, and every gratitude I know. Perhaps you smile at me. I could not stop for that-My Business is Circumference-An ignorance, not of Customs, but if caught with the Dawn - or the Sunset see me - Myself the only Kangaroo among the Beauty, Sir, if you please, it afflicts me, and I thought that instruction would take it away.

Because you have much business, beside the growth of me-you will appoint, yourself, how often I shall come-without your inconvenience. And if at any time-you regret you received me, or I prove a different fabric to that you supposed - you must banish me -

When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse-it does not mean-me-but a supposed person. You are true, about the "perfection."

Today, makes Yesterday mean.

You see my posture is benighted.

To thank you, baffles me. Are you perfectly powerful? Had I a pleasure you had not, I could delight to bring it.

Your Scholar"

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below —

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known —

Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —

Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —

     -F735, J737, Fascicle 35, 1863

In this poem Dickinson pens a paean to the Moon.

It begins with the poet looking at the round face of the Moon and remembering how just a few days ago only the golden chin of this face was showing. The moon is not only alive, but golden, and She slowly reveals Her perfect face to us below.

Dickinson describes the face of the Moon in the richest of terms. The forehead, for instance, is of amplest blonde. The phrase “amplest blonde” is underscored with its open “ahh” assonance. It's not just ample blonde. It's the amplest. In these incremental ways, this poem, like the moon, reveals the glory of itself. 

It’s worth noting that this is the second time Dickinson has used the word “blonde” in fascicle 35. (Here is an interesting essay on the word “blonde” in Dickinson’s oeuvre, including this poem, if you are interested.)

In the second stanza we find out the moon’s cheek is like hewn beryl. The word hewn gives us the idea of the moon’s face having been sculpted, or at least cut like a gem. 

Raw beryl ready to be hewn into a moon's cheek.

Then we get this lovely comparison, “Her Eye unto the Summer Dew/ The likest I have known —” The way Dickinson has phrased this, "Her eye unto the Summer Dew," gives the sense that the summer dew is somehow emanating from the eye of the moon itself, like tears, or a liquid gaze. The second half of this phrase, “The likest I have known,” makes the connection between the moon and the dew complete. The thing most like the rejuvenating dew of the morning is seen in the glistening eye of the moon. This is the third time the word “dew” has been used in fascicle 35. In F733, Dickinson writes of how the dew is the same the world through, on earth as it is in heaven, and here, in this poem, you see a reflection of this idea, as the dew on the earth appears to be reflected in the moon’s eye.

Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —

The moon’s face is shown to be a kind of patchwork of precious metals and gems; a golden chin, beryl cheeks and amber lips. The idea that there is a radiant smile behind the never-parting amber lips of the moon is wonderful. The moon would only have to exercise her "Silver Will" to unleash Her smile. “Silver Will” is a memorable phrase. The moon may not be smiling, but she is willing Her silver light to the world.  

The idea of willing a smile recalls the poem just before this one in fascicle 35. “Trivial — a Smile —/ But won’t you wish you’d spared one/ When I’m Earl?” But I don’t get the sense here that the Moon is withholding a smile out of any kind of neglect. She's just not explicitly revealing it. The smile is there, beneath the surface, always, an inner joy that reveals itself in the imagination of the poet. It is worth comparing this poem to another great Dickinson description of the moon in F593, in which the moon is self-sufficient and independent; “Independent, Amber—/ Sustain her in the sky—/ engrossed to Absolute—/ With Shining—and the Sky—/ / The privilege to scrutinize/ Was scarce upon my Eyes/ When, with a Silver practise—/ She vaulted out of Gaze—”

The fourth stanza shows even the remotest star is enamored with the moon:

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —

The idea in this stanza can be compared to another poem, F717, which can be found near the beginning of fascicle 35:

How imminent the Venture –
As One should sue a Star –
For His mean sake to leave the Row
And entertain Despair –

A Clemency so common –
We almost cease to fear –
Enabling the minutest –
And furthest – to adore –

The "remotest" privileged star, here, is like the “minutest and furthest” adoring star in the earlier poem. 

In the fifth and final stanza we move from the face to the rest of the Moon, Her “body,” which extends to the whole universe,

“Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —”

The moon’s bonnet is the sky (the Firmament) and the Universe is her shoe. That’s quite a shoe! An alternate word Dickinson has for “Universe” is “Valleys.” To say the sky is the hat and the valleys are the shoe makes an easier sense. But I like that Dickinson expanded the shoe to be the entire universe. The hyperbole is fitting for the subject matter.

In the last two lines a subtly amorous suggestion enters the poem. There is the Moon's belt of stars, and there are Her dimities of blue. Dimities are sheer cotton fabrics, often used in undergarments. If you couple the dimities with the belt, there is, perhaps, the idea of more to be disclosed.

The overall effect of this poem is in the cumulative way it brings the moon to life in all of its opulent majesty. This effect is reflected in the poetry. The way the moon is slowly revealed, bit by precious bit, and then expands to encompass the whole universe, is what reading an Emily Dickinson poem is like. First you see the lyrical glimmer of the poetry, its "golden chin," and then, after spending some time with it, its perfect form reveals itself to you, as if from above. 

    -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

No matter — now — Sweet —

No matter — now — Sweet —
But when I’m Earl —
Won’t you wish you’d spoken
To that dull Girl?

Trivial a Word — just —
Trivial — a Smile —
But won’t you wish you’d spared one
When I’m Earl?

I shan’t need it — then —
Crests — will do —
Eagles on my Buckles —
On my Belt — too —

Ermine — my familiar Gown —
Say — Sweet — then
Won’t you wish you’d smiled — just —
Me opon?


    -F734, J704, Fascicle 35, 1863

Though this poem is, as far as Emily Dickinson poems go, fairly easy to follow, there is, nonetheless, a complex and subtle mix of tones. This poem both pushes and pulls, is both yearning and dismissive, insecure (“this dull girl”) and confident (“When I’m Earl”), censorious and coy, light and heavy, sweet and bitter.

Almost all of us have been in the position of being snubbed, and, if we are honest, most of us have also been in the position of being the snubber, even if it was unthinkingly. This poem has something to say to both sides of this equation. 

If you are the snubber, this poem reminds you that it is such a “trivial” thing to smile, to just say a kind word. The word “trivial” isn’t trivial here. You can tell because Dickinson uses the word twice. Dickinson poems are extremely concise and every word counts, so if a word is used twice, take note. Another word that is used twice in this poem is “Sweet.” This also tells you something important. If this poem seems bitter, the extra “Sweet” reminds us that any anger is tempered within the confines of a familiar relationship.

If, on the other hand, you are the one who has been snubbed, this poem reminds you to remember your royal nature. You have an “Earl” emerging inside of you. Don’t forget it.

There is a self-assured knowingness that this narrator has that is inspiring. She isn’t whining about the lack of attention. Rather she is, sweetly, instructing the person who is inattentive. She knows that she possesses a royal nature. Dickinson often writes of herself in such royal terms. She knew her true worth. Do we know ours?

This poem is perhaps most notable for its gender fluidity. We have a 19th century girl from Amherst dressing up like an 18th century English earl. One suspects this poem was written for Emily's sister-in-law Sue. Maria Popova, in an essay on Dickinson's letters to Sue, writes,

“Dickinson would frequently and deliberately reassign gender pronouns for herself and her beloveds, recasting her love in the acceptable male-female battery of desire. Throughout her life, she would often use the masculine in referring to herself — writing of her “boyhood,” signing letters to her cousins as “Brother Emily,” calling herself a “boy,” “prince,” “earl,” or “duke” in various poems. Again and again, she would tell all the truth but tell it slant, unmooring the gender of her love objects from the pronouns that befit their biology. Later in life, in flirting with the idea of publication, she would masculinize the pronouns in a number of her love poems — “bearded” pronouns, she called these — to fit the heteronormative mold, so that two versions of these poems exist: the earlier addressed to a female beloved, the later to a male.”

In this poem the narrator starts off as a dull girl, and then blossoms to become a fancy Earl. The transformation from a feminine signifier to a traditionally masculine one happens within the poem itself. There are other examples of this, like in F225, for example, where Dickinson goes from wife to Czar. The narrator doesn’t become male so much as transform into a powerful figure who is traditionally male. This move has a twofold effect; not only does it subverts patriarchal roles, but it also broadens the definitions for women.

Just look at the language that accompanies this transformation! There is the “crest,” with its double meaning; both royal crest and tip top. Then there are those eagles. Not only are they on the earl's buckle, but we find out they are on the belt too. They appear to be proliferating even as this "dull girl" is transformed into an Earl. In the "crest" of sky, this poem implies, eagles will fly. This poem may, itself, be seen as the crest of the poet's eagle-like flight. Watch out little ermine. 

       -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

 

P.S. Christine Miller, in "Poems as She Preserved Them,” changes the “opon” in the final line to “upon.” But I’m more inclined to leave it the way it is. Dickinson has this same spelling in other poems, so I believe it is her preference. I don’t know why Dickinson would prefer it this way, but I bet she had a good reason. Any guesses as to why?