Nature and God—I neither knew

Nature and God—I neither knew
Yet Both so well knew me
They startled, like Executors
Of My identity.

Yet Neither told—that I could learn—
My Secret as secure
As Herschel's private interest
Or Mercury's affair—


-Fr803, J835, early 1864


Nature and God—I neither knew

What a start to the poem, to skip right past "belief" and to admit that you know nothing of Nature and God. It reminds of what the oracle of Delphi said about Socrates: he was the wisest man in the land for knowing he knew nothing.
.
And yet!

Yet Both so well knew me

Both Nature and God so well know Emily. The person is formed from and by nature, and from something more, too, perhaps, God. But who or what is God? That is up to you to not know.

They startled, like Executors
Of My identity.

Executors has a hint of "execution." It is a startling word. In the undercutting doubleness of the word "executors,"we see, perhaps, a bit of Dickinson’s rebellious independence flare up.

But, there is also this startling idea; our identity is executed not by our will, as we think, but by Nature and God. "identity" we notice, is not capitalized.

Yet Neither told—that I could learn—

Nevertheless, neither Nature nor God have told anyone Emily's true secret identity. At least not that she has "learned" of. Because, of course, they can't. It's beyond words, and therefore beyond learned knowledge. Her secret identity is secure!

My Secret as secure
As Herschel's private interest

Her identity is beyond knowing, because it's of Nature and God, which are themselves beyond knowing.

Dickinson is wise enough to not profess any knowledge of Nature and God. Not knowing is a kind of negative capability that actually allows beauty to exist. We saw this idea expressed beautifully in a poem a few back in the Franklin order,

“The definition of Beauty is
that definition is none.”

Herschel’s private interest is …what? Well, he’s famous for being the man that discovered Uranus, but he had many other private interests. He was not only a very accomplished astronomer, but also a talented composer. (See the fourth endnote) Herschel’s private interest, though, for the sake of this poem, is likely meant to be the planets and stars. The word "private" is intriguing. It most likely means that Herschel's interest is private because it can't be known, even to Herschel. But perhaps there are other possibilities (See the third endnote.)

Or Mercury's affair—

Mercury’s affairs, too, point toward the planetary. Mercury has the added resonance of the word mercurial, like quicksilver. God and Nature, and Emily Dickinson by extension, are mercurial like quicksilver too.

In these final lines Dickinson is saying that her identity is as unknowable and vast as the galaxy. 

One startling thing in this poem is, perhaps, the word "startles." Why is Dickinson startled by being so well known by Nature and God? For one, it's a mind-blowing thought. We can’t know, but are known. Our identity may not be in our own hands, but what does it matter if we are as large and unknowable as the cosmos? 

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Astronomer (Herschel) by Julia Margaret Cameron, 1867

Notes:

1. In a strange and wonderful coincidence, I saw the above photo of Herschel at the Morgan Library last week. I went to the Morgan, on appointment, to see and hold in my hand (!!!) an Emily Dickinson poem, and not just any poem, but one she had given to Sue. When my friend Tyler Burba and I got to the library though something had gone wrong with the library's cooling system, so we had to wait. Meanwhile we explored the exhibits. One of them was a great show on Jane Austen and the other was photographs by Julia Margaret Cameron. There were several pictures of Herschel, who was a friend of hers. At that time I'd never heard of Herschel before. But I was immediately struck by the photos. So imagine my surprise when I started researching this poem. 

2. Keats and Whitman were both taken by Herschel's discovery too. 

Whitman writes in Song of Myself, “The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies." I've always loved this line, but didn't know until researching this Dickinson poem that Whitman was referring to Herschel here as both astronomer and composer! 

John Keats alludes to Herschel's discovery of Uranus in his 1816 sonnet "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer": 

"Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken."

3. Was the "Uranus/ your anus" joke a thing back in the 1800s? It must’ve been, right? If so, is Dickinson being ribald by calling it Herschel's "private interest?" Probably not, but I wouldn't quite put it past her either.


4. Friedrich Wilhelm Herschel 1738 – 1822

Herschel published catalogues of astronomical objects.
Herschel published his discoveries as three catalogues:
Catalogue of One Thousand New Nebulae and Clusters of Stars,
Catalogue of a Second Thousand New Nebulae and Clusters of Stars
And, finally, Catalogue of 500 New Nebulae.

While making his observations Herschel made note
of a new object in the constellation of Gemini.
He called the new planet the "Georgian star" after King George III.
In France, where reference to the British king was to be avoided if possible,
the planet was known as "Herschel.”
Eventually the planet was given the name of Uranus
and because of it, Herschel became famous.

Herschel also pioneered astronomical spectrophotometry
using prisms and temperature measuring equipment
to measure the wavelength distribution of stellar spectra
through which he discovered infrared radiation.  

He discovered Titania and Oberon (moons of Uranus)
and Enceladus and Mimas (moons of Saturn)
and the fact that Martian polar caps vary seasonally.

Herschel was sure that he had found ample evidence
of life on the Moon and compared it to the English countryside.
He did not refrain from theorizing that the other planets were populated,
Herschel went so far as to speculate that the interior of the Sun was populated.

But Herschel had other notable “private interests.”
His father was a court oboist and he followed suit,
mastering the oboe and then violin and harpsichord.
He composed numerous musical works,
including 24 symphonies and many concertos.

 In 1766 Herschel became organist of the Octagon Chapel
a fashionable chapel in a well-known spa in Bath.

Herschel's epitaph is: Coelorum perrupit claustra
(He broke through the barriers of the heavens)

The spry Arms of the Wind

The spry Arms of the Wind
If I could crawl between
I have an errand imminent
To an adjoining Zone—

I should not care to stop
My Process is not long
The Wind could wait without the Gate
Or stroll the Town among.

To ascertain the House
And is the soul at Home
And hold the Wick of mine to it
To light, and then return—

    -Fr802, J1103, back of envelope, early 1864


I first read this poem in a book given to me by a HS student as a gift. It’s called “Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems” and is comprised of reproductions of poems Dickinson wrote down on envelopes and other scraps of paper lying around the house.* It is one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given. I remember first reading the poem at hand on the back of an envelope in that book and feeling stunned by it. I’ll try to say why.

The spry Arms of the Wind
If I could crawl between

In these opening lines I picture Emily herself crawling through the wild winds of time blowing this way and that. I picture a precocious girl running through the legs of giants who are trying to catch her, but who somehow manages to keep her flame lit in all that candle-snuffing wind. The light of the flame is this poem itself.

I have an errand imminent
To an adjoining Zone—

The poet is on an errand to deliver something to one in an adjoining Zone. The adjoining Zone, you might say, is the very one that the reader is in.**  

I should not care to stop

Dickinson is relentless in getting this imminent message across to the reader's zone. It’s possible that this message had a single recipient originally, and I usually think of Sue, since we know she so often was the poem's intended audience. Sue lived in the adjoining house (zone), but to deliver a poem across to her, past prying eyes, and most especially, past Austin’s, must have felt like a difficult game. (Cue theme music to Mission Impossible.) 

But, of course, Dickinson could also mean she is on an errand to visit ANY reader. Part of Dickinson’s genius is that though her poems often were meant for one specific reader, they were also, somehow, meant for any ideal reader. The ideal reader, at this point, now includes me and you. And that's one of the things that wowed me when I first read the poem on the back of that envelope: the very poem I was reading had to get through the spry arms of the wind to get to me, a century and a half later, which is quite a feat, especially for a poet who refused to publish her poetry.***

Dickinson did “not care to stop” trying to get her message across to Sue, and, then, finally, to us. If you think about it, the poems are still working to get that light across. Dickinson still hasn't stopped. She still cares to keep going.

My Process is not long

What does this mean? Well, for one, it probably didn't take that long to write this poem, nor does it take long to read and receive its light. But one gets a sense here, somehow, of her meaning something more; a whole life project, that is, relative to eternity, still a very short process. Life is very short, but in poetry the light may persist on and on.

The Wind could wait without the Gate
Or stroll the Town among.

If Emily is talking to Sue here, this Wind that could “wait without the Gate/ Or stroll the Town among” might well be Austin. Go paint the town red, Austin! Wait outside of the "gate." Hint hint, wink wink. ****

But if she’s talking to us, then Dickinson is using her skill as a poet to set aside any distractions or barriers between us. She’s gatekeeping. Those who she is sending to “town,” which includes the general population, will likely never see the light of this poem. One thinks here of the famous poem, “The soul selects her own society/ then shuts the door.”

To ascertain the House
And is the soul at Home

To ascertain the House, for me, takes this poem out the personal realm (of Sue and co) and into that of an unknown reader. Whose house is this message going to? The poet is still trying to ascertain who's house it is. The poem, in other words, is trying to find you. And once it does, the question she has for us is, “And is the soul at Home?”

Hello?

Well, if the soul is home, and Emily’s candle has found you, she's going to share her light with you.

And hold the Wick of mine to it
To light, and then return—

This is a very romantic, and even sexy, image if it is written to Sue, or some other lover. But its also quite powerful to think of this poem as Emily lighting us up with a poem about...lighting us up. She holds her essence, the gem-like flame of her poetry, up to our essence, and ignites us. Then, almost as if she was never there, a professed nobody, she returns back to her own Zone.

And we are left holding the flame.

What a poem.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Candle Flame by Shan Sheehan

* Here's a New Yorker review of The Envelope poems. I disagree with the author of the review, since he doesn't believe there are any masterpieces among these scraps. Is the poem at hand not a masterpiece? It is, in my appreciation. Somehow, it seems to me, most of Dickinson's poems could be justified as masterpieces.

**Zones are an intriguing part of Dickinson’s poetic lexicon. A recent poem, Fr794, for instance, speaks of "ethereal Zones.” Think of zones in terms of Dickinson's fixation on circumference. There is a circumference around a burning candle, a zone of light. 

*** Indeed, publishers could be seen as “spry arms” attempting to block the message from getting to the reader. Normally you would think a publisher would aid a poet, but in Dickinson's case, she saw it the other way around. (See Publishing is the auction of the mind of man.)

**** And Austin did "go to town," where he met the married, but free-loving, Mabel Loomis Todd, who became Sue's nemesis, and later, ironically, Dickinson's biggest champion. It's possible we have Todd to thank for the fact that we have Dickinson's poems at all. Fate is funny.

Notes: This poem is a corollary to Fr322, which is a very deep dive into what that candle means. It's something the angels have labored diligently to light. 

As Sleigh Bells seem in summer

As Sleigh Bells seem in summer
Or Bees, at Christmas show —
So fairy — so fictitious
The individuals do
Repealed from observation —
A Party that we knew —
More distant in an instant
Than Dawn in Timbuctoo.


     Fr801, J981, 1864

Before we move onto the lexical level of this poem, let’s linger inside its lavish music. 

The sound of the opening line has an immortal aura. It reminds me of one of those fragments of Sappho, where the whole poem is alive in one perfect line. 

Let’s zoom in to the interweave of the consonance. The Z sound of “As” repeats in the Z sound of “Bells” and then buzzes again in “Bees” in the following line. The Z sound slides into the S sound of “Sleigh,” which is quickly followed by the little tongue-trip of “L, then hits a “B” sound which bounces us back to the “L” again, which leads us into another Z/S combo, “Bells” and “seem,” and then we get a repeat of S once again with “summer.” With the word “seem” the “M” sound comes into the poem, which is doubled down upon in “summer.” 

Finally the line ends, rhythmically, on a half beat, on the drop into “er,” which sets us up to expect an iambic up beat, but instead we get another down beat of “Or,” in the next line, a break beat, if you will. The two descending beats in a row give us a strong up beat on the word “Bees.” 

That’s a lot of work these consonants are doing to our tongues. You have an abundance of sibilance with that Z>S>Z>S>S combo, you’ve got the bop of a “B” (setting up the B of “Bee” in the second line), and then finally, running underneath of all of this, is the double hum of those mmm sounds. You have a sliding feeling of smooth snake, an ssss feeling, but also an mmm feeling, with something under the surface bubbling up. It hummable and it pops. It’s sinuous and a little sexy. This is the soundscape Dickinson begins with and all of these sonic structures will be picked up in the subsequent lines of this poem.

This audible line presents two things we love: summer and sleigh bells, and proceeds, somehow, to smash them together into one perfect season. Summer AND sleighbells! But alas, we know it’s impossible. For some reason, having to do with the way the seasons work, the two do not belong together.

(This begs a question. Besides the fact that they are for sleds on winter snow, why don’t sleighbells sound right in the summer?)

The sounds of the poem perfectly blend together, but its object and subject are out of season with one another. There’s a disconnect between sound and sense here.

Snow in summer is unsettling. But this idea gets even more strange and disturbing in the next stanza because now we have bees in winter.

The idea of being out of season with someone is one Dickinson has explored before, notably in Fr686. It’s an odd thought. What does it mean to not be of your time?

Brian Wilson, of the Beach Boys, wrote a song about it, “I just wasn't made for these times.” I bring Wilson up because he died today and therefore he's on my mind. But it seems appropriate since we are looking at the musicality of Dickinson's language.  Poetry is song, and though we love words, it is the sounds we love first. The music of both Dickinson and Wilson will ripple into our lives for a long time to come.

I just wasn't made for these times. Brian Wilson. 

Getting back to the poem. In the next line we see that these kinds of seasonal anomalies are described as "Fairy" and "Fictitious." These words have a winking sound, and a subversive meaning. Both words could be seen as a portal into a perfect season. Maybe you can’t have certain things in the real world, but you can still have them in fiction, and you can have them in the realm of fairy magic too, which is the realm of our imaginations.

They are fun words to say together, and for me tip off a kind of acceptance. “So fairy, so fictitious." You almost want to shimmy back and forth as you say it. It doesn't sound completely heart-broken.

The officious latinate sound of the word "fictitious" sets us up for a very different tone in the next few lines,

The individuals do
Repealed from observation —

The words in this poem go from anglo-saxon in the first few lines to latinate in these, and then back again. The late “latin” influence on the poem is ALSO out of sync, out of time, with its opening Anglo-saxon era. Is this meant to be a disconnect too? 

Another reason that occurs to me that these lines are suddenly latinate is that Latin underlies the language of the law: repeal,party, observation.

If a party is getting “repealed,” then my guess is it is Sue. And her husband, Emily’s brother, Austin, a lawyer by the way, is the one taking her away.

Latin has entered the picture, but then it leaves again, taking along with it the beloved, and we are back with the plaintive anglo-saxon of “Dawn” followed by a word that isn't even English, “Timbuctoo.” It’s as if language is finally going all the way back to its very roots, or at least trying to.

The poem carries the idea of heartbreak in it, but the language is fun: “Distant in an instant,” “So fairy, so fictitious,” “Dawn of Timbuctoo,” "Sleighbells seem in summer."

One would think that fun would be repealed along with the beloved, but the delight in the language belies any heartbreak. You believe heartbreak may be imminent, but you also suspect that at some level the lover is, like the bees, still inside the summer of the poet. Or perhaps, at least, those sleighbells can be heard in the poet’s winter.


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Currier and Ives, 1853

I never saw a Moor

I never saw a Moor
I never saw the Sea –
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be –

I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven –
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given –


    -F800, J1052, early 1864


This poem is mad sneaky. It’s a poem about simple faith that is anything but. 

Let’s start with the comparison. In the first stanza the poet says that though she's never seen a moor or the sea, she knows how heather looks and what a billow is. But how could she know this? It would have to be through the testimony of others, like, for instance, through a description in a novel (moors show up prominently in Wuthering Heights, one of Dickinson’s favorites) or perhaps from a painting. But heaven, which these are compared to in the second stanza, is a different kind of experience. It is beyond any first-person description. It's speculative and subjective. No one knows what heaven looks like. So there is a strange logical disconnect between the first and second stanza.

Let’s look closer at moors and billows for moment. These are rich poetic images. A moor is a wild and untamed region. A billow connotes a chaotic, and even tempestuous rolling of the sea. Together they seem to point toward a mysterious and romantic sense of the sublime. These are earthly symbols of the vast and unknowable, just like God and Heaven are for the spiritual world in the second stanza. Dickinson is drawing a parallel between the natural and the spiritual. It's a comparison, and where there's a comparison there's always a contrast, isn't there? She’s up to something.

First of all, the knowledge of moors and billows is secondhand. It’s “hearsay.” These are things one could easily imagine, but it’s just that, imagination. That’s already a little ironic. Because if the speaker is so sure about those, it’s not really inner certainty, but imagination. There’s a whiff of artifice here.

Here’s where the shift gets bold though. After describing the earthly things she hasn't seen, but sort of knows through description, she jumps to the spiritual: "I never spoke with God / Nor visited in Heaven—"

That’s much more drastic than “I never saw a moor.” And here's the kicker. She follows that with, "Yet certain am I of the spot.”

But wait, she just said she never spoke with God, so where is the certainty coming from? And is heaven really a "spot?" How so? Can it, like a billowing moor, be described?

What if Dickinson is not making a straight declaration of faith, but instead mirroring the form of such declarations in order to question them?

She builds a simple analogy: Just as I know a moor I’ve never seen, I know the heaven I’ve never visited. But this analogy collapses under pressure, because imagining a landscape based on descriptions is not the same as having certainty about metaphysical truth.

So when she says, "Yet certain am I of the spot," it starts to feel overconfident to the point of being satirical. This might be Dickinson's quiet way of saying, “Look how easily we convince ourselves we’re sure of the unseen. Just a few metaphors, a confident tone, and it feels like faith.”

And then there’s that line: “I never spoke with God” This may be the most subversive line in the poem. She doesn’t say “I haven’t heard from God,” she says: “I never spoke with God” That’s active and sounds like a choice. A quiet refusal. A recognition that she hasn’t even attempted direct communion, and yet she’s still “certain.” That undercuts her own claim. It hints at doubt, or at least self-awareness about the constructed nature of belief.

Dickinson seems to be presenting certainty, while at the same time showing us the flimsiness of its scaffolding. It reminds me of the poem a few back in the Franklin order, F797, which begins, “The Definition of Beauty is/ That Definition is none—” That’s another example where Dickinson asserts a logical claim that undoes itself. The definition is that there is no definition. Here too she lures us in with a simple analogy, makes a show of confidence, and then slips in just enough unease (a never-spoken to God, hearsay) to make us wonder, is this faith, or just the shadow of faith made by language?

The tension between belief and suspicion is what makes the poem so deceptively simple and strange.

Let’s end by looking at those given “checks” in the last line. In Christanne Miller’s notes on this poem it states that “the word 'checks' was used colloquially to mean railroad tickets; one gave one’s checks to the conductor.”

With this reading, the poem becomes even more elusive. Dickinson begins with things she hasn’t seen (moor, sea), compares them to things she’s only heard about, heaven, God, and ends with the metaphor of train travel (a la “This train is bound for Glory”) that makes the unknowable seem orderly and ticketed.

But the phrase “as if” is crucial I think. She’s saying, “I know I’m imagining this. I know the ‘ticket’ isn’t real. But the feeling? The feeling is real.”

It’s a confession of belief through metaphor, and a confession that metaphor is the only thing we have.

But for all of the metaphorical construction, I believe the idea of "the feeling being real" is also essential here, especially if you factor in the wildness of moor and billow. Dickinson may be questioning the machinery of belief, the metaphors, but we can't forget that the feeling is still real.

Dickinson doesn’t just interrogate and mock belief, she also professes it. The poem lives in that in-between space where certainty may be built on metaphors (moor, billow, checks) but the inner sensation of faith remains authentic. So when she says, “Yet certain am I of the spot,” she may be showing us the scaffolding of that certainty, but she’s not denying the emotional reality of it. That’s what makes the poem resonate. It doesn't land in sarcasm or skepticism. It hovers in tension.

Moors and billows, after all, don’t represent certainty so much as they represent a feeling of the sublime, a kind of emotional knowing that defies logic. They're the opposite of a “check," no receipt for travel, no structure, just mood.

That contrast might be the real engine of the poem, and of poetry itself. On one hand you have feeling and on the other, faith through metaphor. A poem may depend on both.

Dickinson is showing us that faith isn’t rational, but rather derives from a kind of felt resonance with the world’s mystery, the echo of something wild and vast, like moors and billows, inside the self.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Wuthering Heights, by Robert McGinnis, 1965

All I may, if small,

All I may, if small,
Do it not display
Larger for the Totalness —
’Tis Economy

To bestow a World
And withhold a Star —
Utmost, is Munificence —
Less, tho’ larger, poor.


      -Fr799, J819, sheet 13, early 1864


This was a difficult poem to understand. I read it, blinked, shook my head, and tried again. And again and again. It’s like one of those autostereograms, where you look at a 2 dimensional page, and if you stare long enough, and squint just right, a 3 dimensional object pops out. Most of Dickinson’s poems have some degree of this quality, but some, like this one, take bit more work. 

So I went back and stared longer. Eventually, a cogent reading emerged, like a 3D star, from the page. Once I got it, it seemed obvious. Here is my take, line by line.

All I may, if small

All I have to give, even though it is small…

Do it not display
Larger for the Totalness —

Doesn’t it appear larger for being so total?

’Tis Economy
To bestow a World
And withhold a Star —

It may be economical to give a whole world and keep a star for yourself,

Utmost, is Munificence —

but giving your utmost, everything, is where true munificence (generosity) is.

Less, tho’ larger, poor.

Giving anything less, even if it is actually more than what I have to give, is still poor.

It is better to give everything you have, even if it is small, than to give a lot, but hold back the truly important thing. 

***

I chafe a bit at biographical readings of Dickinson's poems, just because I think they can detract from a poem’s resonance in our own lives, but sometimes they can be helpful. This is, perhaps, the case here. We know this poem was given to Sue, so let’s start there.

This poem reads to me like Fr687,

I asked no other thing —
No other — was denied —
I offered Being — for it —
The Mighty Merchant smiled —

Brazil? He twirled a Button —
Without a glance my way —
“But — Madam — is there nothing else
That We can show — Today”?

In this earlier poem, Emily is offered Brazil but, though an entire country, it isn’t the one thing she really wants, which is all of Sue. Emily offers her whole being, but Sue is holding back the one thing Emily really wants, which is, we assume, her whole being in return. In that poem Emily is saying, I wanted the world, but you just offered Brazil. In this one, the stakes are even larger -you may have given me the whole world, but you kept the star for yourself.  

What I have, it says, may be small, but doesn’t it appear larger for being so total? Meanwhile, you, who have so much to give, are keeping the true thing, the star, for yourself. Both poems seem to say, you are being economical, like a merchant, and bartering, but it's all or nothing I want.

I believe this poem is chiding Sue for holding back. Fr687 does this with a cheeky humor, but this one is more to the point -is not my small gift of my whole Being larger for being total than your large gift is for being partial? 

One wonders if receiving poems like this made Sue retreat even further. And yet, don't we all wish for a love this total? Well, we know Sue was there for Emily at the end, and even made her funeral shroud for her, so perhaps Emily got her star after all.

   -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Lovers, by Marc Chagall, 1915

Note: This poem, like many of Dickinson's, can be read in more ways than one. For instance, there is a logically viable reading of the poem I found online which has nearly the opposite meaning from the way that I take it. This other reading extols the wisdom of holding something back when you give. It says that to give a world, but to hold back a small part, a star, is the “utmost, is munificence,” and suggests that true generosity is not in giving recklessly, but rather, giving wisely. The entire poem can be parsed in support of this reading, and it’s compelling. It's a terrific reading, and wise, but I don't think that is what Dickinson is saying here. I believe she is saying the opposite. She’s not praising being economical, but, instead, criticizing it. Love with your whole heart she is telling us.

The Veins of other Flowers

The Veins of other Flowers
The Scarlet Flowers are
Till Nature leisure has for Terms
As "Branch," and "Jugular."

We pass, and she abides.
We conjugate Her Skill
While She creates and federates
Without a syllable.


     -Fr798, J811, sheet 21, 1865


This was a tough poem to “get.”

The first stanza makes a very wonky Yoda-like sentence. “The veins of other Flowers the Scarlet Flowers are, 'till Nature leisure has for Terms as “Branch” and “Jugular.”

Let’s start by trying to put that in a more regular sentence form. “The scarlet flowers are like the veins of other flowers, until Nature has leisure for terms such as "branch" and "jugular."

Why would scarlet flowers be like veins of "other Flowers"? Here’s my best guess for what’s going on here. I think "other Flowers" is referring to humans. Dickinson is saying that if we set terms aside, then human veins, such as the jugular, can be likened to branches of scarlet flowers, and, inversely, branches of scarlet flowers can be seen as jugular veins. If we get beyond "terms," then we can more easily see that humans are like flowers, and flowers, human.

Since Dickinson often sent riddle-like poems along with flowers from her garden as gifts to friends (see Fr726 for a brilliant example of this), it made me wonder what flowers might have possibly accompanied this riddle of a poem. I did some research and I found out that Cardinal Flowers could well have been growing in Dickinson's garden. They fit the criteria; they're scarlet and shaped like a branch, look like jugular veins and are the color of blood.

Cardinal flowers, or a stand of jugular veins? 

The next stanza adds a new dimension to this idea. It starts with a pithy and memorable line:

We pass, and she abides.

This line ends, pointedly, with a period, not a dash. In fact this is a rare Dickinson poem in which there are no dashes. 

Dickinson loved this word “abides.” (See Fr654, “Beauty…abides.”) It’s a common theme of Dickinson's poetry, and poetry in general; nature’s permanence versus our impermanence. The idea that nature continues on long after we are gone is a comforting thought.

It’s ironic, though, that we humans, who are just passing through, attempt to control nature through language, through terms and conjugations:

We conjugate Her Skill

I love this line, because conjugating is what we do to verbs. Nature is in flow, in flux, is always "verbing," and to try to conjugate this "Skill" is almost laughable.

While She creates and federates
Without a syllable.

We attempt to make ourselves permanent by giving names to things, and perhaps, even, by writing poems.

Maybe Dickinson is poking a bit of fun at herself here. Syllables are the very building blocks of poetry, but Nature creates and federates (governs) without any need of that.

This poem dovetails beautifully with the last one in the Franklin order, Fr797, which begins with the lines, “The Definition of Beauty is/ That Definition is none—” When we go beyond terms and definitions, it isn’t so difficult to see anew, to see, for instance, the way humans flower and flowers are human, the stuff of life coursing through the veins of both.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Michaelangelo's David exhibits a very prominent jugular vein

The Definition of Beauty is

The Definition of Beauty is
That Definition is none—
Of Heaven, easing Analysis,
Since Heaven and He are one.


   -Fr797, J988, Sheet 61, late 1865

This is a short poem, but there is so much one can say about it.

The first two lines are saying something more than just “beauty cannot be defined.” It’s saying that the definition of beauty is lack of definition. To define anything is to attempt to pin it down, which destroys its true beauty. There’s an irony here, because we appear to be attempting to define this poem, but we'll look later at the ways the poem itself defies any definition.

Can you stay open, like a child, to the beauty in the moment without needing to define it? If you can, that's heaven. But this is radical and perhaps it goes against our very nature. I've thought a lot about why we have the incessant need to think and define. Our brains constantly secrete thought. I'm sure this has something to do, evolutionarily, with survival in the wild. If we are always thinking, always worrying, we have a better chance of staying alive in the wilderness. But at what point does this get in the way of our well being? 

I’ve only ever felt this kind of heavenly beauty in certain rare moments when all thought shuts down and I enter into a trance-like state of sensory bliss. It’s very difficult to describe this state precisely because it's a kind of shutting down of description and one must define to describe. 

But before we head into the mystical, which is where I think Dickinson is going, let's look at this poem philosophically. By removing the definition for what counts as beautiful, we find that everything has the potential to be beautiful. Not because everything is beautiful, necessarily, but because nothing is ruled out by definition. If there’s no fixed standard, then beauty arises in relation, not essence. It’s about how you experience, not what you experience.

So a cracked sidewalk, a withered leaf, a moment of grief, all could be beautiful if you aren't working with a checklist. It’s an anti-aesthetic aesthetic.  

But now I want to try to dig even deeper than the philosophical and enter into the realm of the metaphysical. Bear with me here because I'm trying to get down to something ineffable, and therefore my words are wildly insufficient. 

There seems to be me to be a state of pure being, a place in which true beauty exists simply because of absolute ISNESS.

Defined beauty implies a kind of conditionality: this could be beautiful if… But what Dickinson is reaching for, I believe, is unconditional beauty, beauty as a state of pure presence prior to the judgment implicit in thought.

Let’s slow down and sit inside that. 

If definitions disappear, then beauty doesn’t just become possible in all things, all things become beautiful. Not because we choose to see them that way, but because there’s nothing in the way of their being what they are.

This is what Eastern philosophy might call suchness (Tathātā), or the Christian mystics might call the “cloud of unknowing.” In that space, you don’t see beauty, you are in beauty. You are beauty.

Let’s look at the way the form of this poem echoes its content.

The Definition of Beauty is

That Definition is none—

This formal structure of an equation collapses in on itself. What looks like it’s going to deliver clarity ends up producing a kind of absence. Dickinson’s making a definition that erases itself, which is what the poem is about, subverting definition. She uses the grammar of certainty to create uncertainty, and that reflects her subject.

She does something similar with the dash, which functions here as both a closing of the line and an opening to the next line. It creates a gap where meaning both breaks down and spills forward. This echoes how beauty itself works, something that resists closure.

Dickinson also uses ambiguity in this poem to further this idea. In the lines "Of Heaven, easing Analysis, / Since Heaven and He are one,’ the syntax is ambiguous. "Of Heaven" can modify "Beauty" (Beauty is of Heaven), or it could introduce a new clause, (easing analysis is of Heaven.) Same with “easing Analysis.” Is Heaven easing analysis? Or is the absence of definition what eases analysis? It’s structurally unclear, which underlines the point of the poem. Just as Heaven (and beauty) defy straightforward analysis, these lines defy analysis. They resist parsing the same way their subject resists dissection.

The reader is forced to experience the lines rather than decode them. It's like a divine leak, a trick I'm not sure even Shakespeare could've pulled off so well.

What’s so radical in Dickinson's poem here is that she starts with a linguistic paradox. “The definition of Beauty is / That Definition is none—” But that paradox opens into something beyond thought. The poem performs a shift, from the idea of beauty, to the failure of defining it, to the refusal of analysis, to the merging of Heaven and God, to the unspoken reality behind all appearances.

It’s as if she leads you to the edge of thought, and just as you reach for understanding, lets you fall gently into Presence.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Giovanni Bellini's "St. Francis in the desert." The most beautiful painting in the world?

Notes:


1. The opening structure of this poem is used again in Fr988, but "beauty" is replaced with "melody,"

The Definition of Melody – is
That Definition is none –


2. Check Fr654 out for a deeper dive into Fr797, a poem that says much the same thing, but maybe even more beautifully. It's a favorite.

 
Beauty — be not caused — It Is –
Chase it, and it ceases –
Chase it not, and it abides –

Overtake the Creases

In the Meadow — when the Wind
Runs his fingers thro' it –
Deity will see to it
That You never do it –

The Wind begun to knead the Grass –

The Wind begun to knead the Grass –
As Women do a Dough –
He flung a Hand full at the Plain –
A Hand full at the Sky –
The Leaves unhooked
themselves from Trees –
And started all abroad –
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands –
And throw away the Road –
The Wagons quickened on the Street –
The Thunders gossiped low –
The Lightning showed a Yellow Head –
And then a livid Toe –
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests –
The Cattle flung to Barns –
Then came one drop of Giant Rain –
And then, as if the Hands
That held the Dams – had parted hold –
The Waters Wrecked the Sky –
But overlooked my Father's House –
Just Quartering a Tree –


             -Fr796, J824, 1864


There is a later version of this poem in which the storm becomes even fiercer. Here it is.


The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low-
He threw a Menace at the Earth-
A Menace at the Sky.

The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees-
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw away the Road.

The Wagons quickened on the Streets
The Thunder hurried slow-
The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak
And then a livid Claw.

The Birds put up the Bars to Nests-
The Cattle fled to Barns-
There came one drop of Giant Rain
And then as if the Hands

That held the Dams had parted hold
The Waters Wrecked the Sky,
But overlooked my Father's House-
Just quartering a Tree

I see why in the later poem Dickinson got rid of the image of the wind kneading the grass like women knead dough since it’s not a very menacing image and doesn’t really fit with a storm. But I love the idea of the wind kneading the grass and hate to see it go. Sometimes good lines have to go in service to the poem. The new opening lines are pretty good too though. The wind “rocking” the grass with “threatening Tunes” has an anachronistic sense of a heavy metal guitar God.

I also like “The Cattle flung to the barn” in the first poem better than “fled to the barn" in the second. But “fled” carries with it a sense of fear, which, like the double use of the word "menace" adds terror to the poem. Word choices matter.

I love the addition of the Yellow Beak and Livid Claw image to describe lightning. Imagining lightning as a humongous chicken claw is tremendous.

The entire poem, in both versions, is a bravura display of Dickinson’s creative powers. You might even say it is a storm of creativity. The world becomes personified; leaves unhooking themselves from trees, dust scooping itself like Hands, thunder Hurrying “slow,” birds putting up bars on their nests, hands letting dams go, a drop of Giant Rain. It’s both charming and terrifying at once.

If nothing else, this poem gives us new ways of seeing the world. I will likely think of those chicken claws next time I see lightning, and think of the idea of hurrying slow next time I hear thunder. It’s marvelous. But, beyond its fantastical quality, what is this poem saying? At the end of the poem you have a sense of safety amid the storm in “my Father’s House.” Father’s House could be referring to her actual family home, which fits for Dickinson, since she stayed in the safety and comfort of her father's house her whole life. But “My Father’s House” can also be read as a biblical allusion. (John 14:2: “In my Father’s house are many mansions…”)

So what does it mean, then, that the storm “overlooked” the house? A lot depends on this word “overlooked.” Overlooked can mean “ignored" or "bypassed" which is how we generally take it today, or it can mean “looked over,” or "surveyed," which was a more common usage in Dickinson’s day. The difference between the two is huge in terms of the meaning of this poem.

If we take the first meaning, that the storm bypassed the house, it suggests that even in the midst of overwhelming forces, there may be moments of mercy, or meaning, beyond comprehension. The storm is not governed solely by "chance,” but pointedly “overlooked my Father’s House.” That implies something more deliberate than accidental. Even though the storm quarters a tree nearby, the house is spared.
Dickinson is at least entertaining the idea that there is more than randomness in the universe and that some forces may act with purpose, even if inscrutable, and that moments of survival or sparing might not be purely chance.

BUT, if we take “overlooked” to mean “surveyed,” then the storm passed by not because of divine protection, but because of the house’s strength. This shifts the emphasis from grace (the storm chose to spare the house) to preparedness (the house withstood the storm through its own merit).

So which is it? Is there an external force deciding who is spared, or is it an internal resilience? Either way, perhaps Dickinson's deeper point here is that even under threat from overwhelming forces, something grounded, whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually, might hold.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

chicken claw lightning

Truth — is as old as God —

Truth — is as old as God —
His Twin identity
And will endure as long as He
A Co-Eternity —

And perish on the Day
Himself is borne away
From Mansion of the Universe
A lifeless Deity.


    -Fr795, J836, sheet 23, 1854


Truth equals God, and always will. What does that mean? Truth equals God is a kind of tautology that doesn’t tell us much about either one. The truth is God. God is the truth. It doesn’t sound to me like something Dickinson would write.

“Truth” is usually more complicated in Dickinson poems. “Tell the truth but tell it slant,” she writes in a later poem. Is there anything slant in this poem? Perhaps. On one hand you could read the poem as saying that Truth won’t perish until God does. One presumes that this means it will last forever, “Co-eternities.” On the other hand the poem ends with the dark image of a Lifeless Deity. That’s the feeling you are left with, the possibility of a Godless universe.

This poem was attached to a letter to Dr. Josiah Holland, a pious man, and the father of one of Emily’s best friends, Elizabeth Holland. In an earlier letter to the Hollands, we have a hint of Emily’s doubts.

In the letter Emily speaks of having a dream she was with the Hollands and they were picking roses in a lovely garden. But, “though we gathered with all our might, the basket was never full.” There is a sense in this dream of working hard to gather beauty, but never, somehow, being completely fulfilled by this effort.

Then the letter states the following:

“The minister to-day, not our own minister, preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those, meaning Austin and me, who behaved improperly - and somehow the sermon scared me, and father and Vinnie looked very solemn as if the whole was true, and I would not for worlds have them know that I troubled me, but I longed to come to you, and tell you all about it, and learn how to be better. He preached such an awful sermon though, that I didn't much think I should ever see you again until Judgment Day, and then you would not speak to me, according to his story. The subject of perdition seemed to please him, somehow. It seems very solemn to me.”

But perhaps this poem was meant in a less complicated, more straightforward, way, befitting its recipient. We find out from Dr. Holland’s granddaughter, Theodora Van Wagenen Ward, that there was a generational shift in faith experience with her grandfather. She states that Dr. Holland “loved God with the same fervor that his ancestors feared Him.” So perhaps he exemplified that kind of love for Emily.

          -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. I love the way the final word of this poem, Deity, takes up both the "ee" sound of the rhymes in the first stanza and the "ay" sound of the rhymes of the second stanza. 

From Us She wandered now a Year,

From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone

No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be—
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.


     -Fr794, J890, sheet 60, early 1864


In the Franklin ordering of the poems we have now left the fascicles and moved on to some poems that were written on separate sheets of paper and were believed by Franklin to have been written in early 1864. I would've preferred to have moved onto the next fascicle as I believe Dickinson put her "keeper" poems into fascicles, which she arranged with a certain sense of order. But as this blog has, from the beginning, followed the Franklin ordering of the poems, with the project of attempting to include them all, we will tackle several before we get onto the next fascicle.

This one feels slighter than usual, but presuming that all of Dickinson's poems were written with purpose in mind, let's do our best to get a sense of what she is doing here.

Here we have a woman who "From Us...wandered" a year ago. I presume this means that she died. But it's possible that this woman merely disappeared and wandered off. It says we don't know whether the "Wilderness" prevented her feet from going forward, or it was an "Ethereal Zone."

This poem centers around the idea that no one knows what comes after death. It is a mystery. "We only know what time of Year." Maybe that's all this poem is doing, just stating that no one knows. This is, in itself, bold in a time when the majority of people professed faith in an afterlife.

What is the difference, then, between death as a Wilderness or death as an Ethereal Zone?

Both the Wilderness and an Ethereal Zone give us a sense of the unknown, though one is earthly, and one is of the ether, beyond the earth. Ethereal, according to the Dickinson Lexicon, means: Unearthly; supernatural; mystical; mysterious; unexplainable; immortal; beyond death.

So the question here seems to rest on whether when we die we simply return to the earth or transcend to some unknown zone beyond.

I think either possibility, earth or ether, is made more beautiful by Dickinson's word choices of Wilderness and Ethereal Zone.

The last line of this poem "We took the Mystery" is a pretty remarkable way of looking at death. When someone dies all we can do is take the Mystery.

The poem is a striking example of Keats' idea of Negative Capability, which he defines as "capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.”


      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich, 1808

Biographical note: "Thomas Johnson suggests that the dead woman may be Lamira Norcross, the young wife of Emily’s mother’s youngest brother. If so, the ‘us’ of the poem may include Emily’s cousins, Louise and Frances Norcross, nieces of Lamira Norcross." -David Preest

My Soul—accused me—And I quailed—

My Soul—accused me—And I quailed—
As Tongue of Diamond had reviled
All else accused me—and I smiled—
My Soul—that Morning—was My friend—

Her favor—is the best Disdain
Toward Artifice of Time—or Men—
But Her Disdain—'twere lighter bear
A finger of Enamelled Fire—

     -Fr793, J753, fascicle 37

Emily Dickinson was her own best critic. Her "Soul" cut her with its "Tongue of Diamond," to the point that she "quailed," and because it cut so deep, no one else's accusations could touch her. She just smiles at anyone else's censure. It is only her own exacting Soul that she is concerned with. It is her "friend," she says. 

And why was it her friend? I suspect it was because it kept her grounded to what is Real, to what is beyond the temporal, beyond the artificial relationship, beyond "Artifice of Time—or Men—" 

And what is Real? I think for Dickinson the Real might be defined as true intimacy in the eternal moment. As she says in a later a poem, all of Dominion is reduced to nothing in comparison to the heart's smallest extent.

This is no small part of why we turn to Dickinson. For true love she suffered no fools, and not least of which herself. 

"Tongue of Diamond" is a great phrase because it conjures up "hard," and "cutting," but also, "precious."  

Why did the poet's Soul accuse her "that morning?" Is Dickinson speaking of a particular incident here, or is "morning" meant to invoke youth? Or is it "morning" because her Soul is waking her up? 

The second stanza begins with a profound idea. "Her favor—is the best Disdain/ Toward Artifice of Time—or Men—" The favor of your Soul is, in itself, so pleasing that you will naturally want to disdain the artificial. The Soul's favor is positive reinforcement.

On the flipside, if you don't disdain the artificial, then you have negative reinforcement to contend with and it would be easier ("lighter") to bear a "finger of Enamelled Fire." Here is another fantastically rich image. A finger suggests someone pointing in accusation. "Enamelled Fire" is a striking oxymoron. Fire is all consuming, but enamel is decorative and even protective. So here Dickinson is combining the destructive and the ornamental, fusing burning pain with surface perfection. 

Be quiet and listen to your Soul. Dickinson makes it seem like the easy and obvious choice here, but as we all know, it is anything but. Still, a poem like this, paid close attention to, brings us a little closer to the Soul's favor. And what more could we ask for?

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Note: 

1. It is worth thinking about this poem in relation to the famous one about the Soul selecting Her Own Society. For an excellent discussion of that poem see Prowling Bee Fr409. 

2. This is the last poem of Fascicle 37. The first poem in the fascicle, Fr773, also refers to a "friend," though the "friend" of that poem is a Him rather than a Her. You would expect a word like "friend" to be capitalized in a Dickinson poem, but it is lower case in both poems. It is perhaps significant that this fascicle is book-ended by two friends, a shapeless He who visits the poet, and a She, who is her very Soul. 

So the Eyes accost—and sunder

So the Eyes accost—and sunder
In an Audience—
Stamped—occasionally—forever—
So may Countenance

Entertain—without addressing
Countenance of One
In a Neighboring Horizon—
Gone—as soon as known—


       -Fr792, J752, Fascicle 37, 1863


That opening line is so curt and to the point. There is a violent thrust to the sound of that word "accost," and a feeling of finality with that word "sunder."

These eyes accost the narrator and sunder her from what? From herself? From society? From reality? From happiness?

And whose eyes are these that have accosted the narrator? We are left to wonder. It is part of the mystery.

These eyes, though, we are told, accost and sunder "in an audience." Why is there an audience? It's as if it is a play we are witnessing. And who is in this audience? Us? We are witnessing the Witnessing.

Perhaps this intense gaze is just the glance of a would-be lover who is passing by in a crowd. But there is also a sense of a divine Countenance that the poet is facing. I get this idea from the sense of deity that the word "Countenance" connotes, but also from two poems mentioned earlier in this fascicle, Fr773, and Fr783. Both of these poems are also about a mysterious and divine visitation. If you read the three together, the mystery just deepens.

This visitation, which may be earthly in origin, but begins to seem almost supernatural, had a profound effect on the poet, imbuing in her a sense of Eternity:

Stamped—occasionally—forever—

Imagine the gaze that must have stopped Emily Dickinson in her tracks and stamped forever upon her. She turns the gaze here into mythic territory, into divine Countenance itself, conflating the human realm with the Heavenly. It's signature Dickinson. In many of her poems the human and divine appear to be inextricable.

Stamped "occasionally." This might mean that this kind of thing happens "occasionally," ever so often, once in a while. But I think here it more likely means, "upon a single occasion." It happened upon one occasion. The occasion becomes eternal when the eyes meet. Then it is that "now" is stamped with "forever." I love when Dickinson brings eternity into the moment. She does this most famously in Fr690, "Forever is composed of Nows." The poem continues,

So may Countenance

Entertain—without addressing

Countenance of One
In a Neighboring Horizon—

Entertain "a countenance of One/ in a Neighboring Horizon" without addressing it? No names are spoken. Perhaps no names are known? This encounter is, perhaps, just an anonymous passing-by on the street. Have you had that encounter with someone, a momentary connection, that feels somehow eternal? By the way, this could also be describing a visitation from an author, who is entertaining us without addressing us.

But, on a deeper level, this line gets at something about the possessive need to name (address) and own the present, instead of freely allowing oneself to be entertained in the moment.*

I take the "Countenance of One/ in a Neighboring Horizon" in this poem to refer to the poet Herself. The Countenance of God, or lover, or passer-by on the street, is entertaining, but does not deign to address the poet. Hey, says the Poet, there is a "Countenance of One" over here on this side too! It's as if she is saying, "I've got a Countenance to match yours," but you wouldn't know, because you left, as soon as you came...

Gone—as soon as known—

The moment was intense, and in it, something came to be Known, but now that moment is gone.

Do you think Dickinson is happy with this ephemeral, but eternal encounter, or would she rather have been properly introduced and addressed?

Ultimately, for me, this poem is about the potential immediacy and intensity of any moment of true Witness. The poem itself, like its subject, peers through reality into something Beyond.


             -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

photo by Steve McCurry, story of the phote here

* This idea recalls Fr783, another poem about a mysterious presence which can "entertain" without being introduced (and addressed):

Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—
Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—

My Worthiness is all my Doubt —

My Worthiness is all my Doubt —
His Merit — all my fear —
Contrasting which, my quality
Do lowlier — appear —

Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need —
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind —

Tis true — that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline —
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon —

So I — the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content —
Conform my Soul — as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament —


       -Fr791, J751, fascicle 37, 1863


There is a tricky thing Dickinson does in the first line of this poem, a move she often makes wherein, through syntax and the use of the line break, she is able to give two very different meanings to a line. For instance, you could read the first line here as saying, “I doubt my own worthiness,” but you could also read it as, “All my doubting is what makes me worthy.” These two opposing readings of the line get at the tension that underlies the poem. In trying to parse this poem, it's helpful to keep both readings of this line in mind at the same time. It's tough to do, especially because of the elided syntax. I’m reminded of Robert Frost’s useful warning that explication consists of “saying a poem over again, only worse.”

The first reading of this line sets up a pretty straightforward reading of the poem. The speaker is filled with doubt about her own spiritual adequacy and fears that she cannot live up to the perfection of the divine. Yet she reflects that it is in God's very nature to “stoop," to reach down to what is lower, since nothing is higher than God Himself. This realization allows the speaker, though she sees herself as an “undivine abode,” to prepare her soul like a church ready to receive a sacrament. 

But the second possible reading of the poem, based off the idea of there being worth in doubt, is trickier. It is triggered not only by the ambiguity of the first line, but also by the telling word "appear" in the phrase, "Contrast which, my quality do lowlier appear." It appears lowlier, but it isn't, because it is only in our doubts and struggles that we can relate to one another. 

Read this way, the tone of the entire poem changes. In the first reading of the poem, for instance, that second line, "His Merit — all my fear —" means something like, "I fear I can never reach the merit of God," but in the second reading it changes to fear of the Merit itself. The Merit itself is in question. I think it suggests that God is an impossible ideal, and you might even say this is at the root of the doubt. 

You see these two readings come to a head in the third stanza of this poem:

'Tis true — that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline —
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon —

You can see the paradox in the idea that God must stoop to "incline." In other words, this poem is cleverly saying that to reach up, we must reach down. And so, being low is actually the ideal state, as it is what allows us to "conform" to the sacrament of the church. To reach up is to stoop. Stooping here is shorthand for dying on the cross, for humility, for helping the less fortunate, etc.

The second reading sets up the idea that it is our doubts that help make us worthy, because they are part of our humanity, part of our humility, and therefore part of what allows others to lean on us, and us, on them. Likewise, God must become human (become Christ) in order to be "rest upon." One thinks of Christ’s moment of doubt on the cross, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” That doubt, like Dickinson’s, makes Him human, and therefore relatable. 

I feel as if I put all of this badly, but I'm hoping that in wrestling with this poem I have gotten across its paradoxical point. The low is held high. This is at the crux of Christianity itself, and I think it is the part Dickinson felt aligned with. But conversely the gist of the second reading is that the high and mighty is held to be low. There is a "fear" of the arrogance of anything that purports to be perfect and above us. This ambiguity can be found in the tension of the fabric of the poetry itself.

Another key word in the poem is "content." The last stanza, if we fill in the elisions, goes something like this:

So I — the undivine abode
Of His Elect (am, though undivine, nonetheless) Content —
(to) Conform my Soul — as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament —

We are "undivine," and are content to be so, because how else could we be truly aligned with our community (the church)? It's this alignment with the suffering of others that is sacred, that leads us to "Her Sacrament.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


Note: It is interesting that God in this poem is a He and the church is a She. It's the Her of the church that Dickinson appears to be conforming to here, not some perfect Him on high.

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—
Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself
Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

Effort—is the sole condition—
Patience of Itself—
Patience of opposing forces—
And intact Belief—

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—
But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—



      -Fr790, J750, Fascicle 37, 1863

This poem is a guide to living your best life.

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—

For starters, we are reminded that we take our cues from nature. If you look at nature, you see that there is something innate within living beings from which growth takes place. What does this mean? Just like flowers, we have the blueprint for growth, but we must go within to find it. We will find out what that entails as the poem proceeds.

“Gravitates” is a powerful verb here. Growth stems from our own center of gravity.

Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

I take the Sun here to mean, in the context of this poem, something like the approval and happiness of those around us, and the Atmosphere, the pleasantness of our surroundings. Both of these "endorse" our growth, but there must be something deeper we can draw on than set and setting, which, after all, can be mercurial.

“Endorse” is an intriguing word. It’s as if the potential within us is a political candidate, which may be endorsed by sun and atmosphere, but must decide to run for office on its own.

There is also the word “stir,” which is...stirring. We must “stir” —alone—

Apropos, "alone" is set off by itself between two dashes. 

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself—

These lines present a challenge to us. Each of us have a singular ideal state of becoming, of blooming, but to achieve it, we must muster the wherewithal to get there by ourselves. Can we? Yes, we can. But the implied question is: will we? These lines lead us to ask ourselves this question, difficult to ask because it is asking for something difficult.

Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

To achieve this ideal state takes not only solitude, but prowess within this solitude, and not just Silence, but a lifetime of silence. All of our skill, harnessed in silent solitude, not to mention all of our Life, is necessary to get there.

It gives us pause when we realize that Dickinson’s famous reclusivity was in service to this. And further, that within her own solitary prowess, what she was able to harness was, in part, this very set of compact instructions, lyrically composed to last. The fruit of her labors are to help others achieve the fruit of theirs, if they only will. 

Effort—is the sole condition—

Effort is the sole condition. That’s it!  It just takes effort. What kind of effort?

Patience of Itself—

Patience. One pertinent question is, what does the "it" in this poem refer to? It's as if the self, or the engine of the self's growth, were a thing. (It makes me wonder; if Dickinson were a young person in 2025, what pronoun would she take? Would she choose... "it?") Regardless, whatever "it" is must be patient of the process of becoming. I think Dickinson is basically saying here that one must be very patient with one's self. It's a process. It takes time. Mistakes will be made. Effort is what matters. 

Patience of opposing forces—

Not only must one be patient of one's self, but also patient with the forces in opposition to one's self too, all those manifold things that get in the way of becoming our true selves.

And intact Belief—

And we must keep our belief in ourselves, in our ideal potential, intact, unharmed by outside influences. We must protect it from opposing forces. 

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—

I think this is saying that watching the process (the "it") is for others to do, which really just means that it is not for us to do. How do you self-correct without watching yourself? There's a seeming paradox here, but if you are truly blooming, you aren't correcting yourself. It's like that line about dancing like no one is watching you. Once you are inside the music you no longer are conscious of how you look to others. So the self-judgment is the mistake that must be corrected. This is what we are making an effort to transcend. It's a catch 22. One must try to not try. There is no try, there is only do.  

But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—

Countenance, according to the Dickinson lexicon:

Old French, cuntenance, manner of holding oneself, bearing, behavior, aspect. 

1. Other; additional person; person exterior to oneself.

2. Face; visage; facial expression; [fig.] appearance; bearing; demeanor; personality.
3. Glory; radiance; sunbeams; solar illumination; refulgent light; intense shining of the sun.

All of these meanings are possibly at play in this poem, but since we have just had the idea of an audience looking, we may say that what is being said here is that the countenance of another, the opinion of another, will not help us transact into full blossom. This we must do ourselves. 

Transaction is defined by the Dickinson lexicon as: "Effort; labor; exertion." So again, it comes down to effort and even though we may be endorsed by the refulgent light of others, they can't assist us where it truly matters, a decision that must be rooted in belief that must remain intact beyond the vagaries of opinion. 

Here we consider Dickinson's poetry. A poem that proceeds this one in the fascicle, Fr788, "Publication is the auction of the mind of man," is thinking along a similar line. We are getting more and more insight in fascicle 37 as to why these poems, although clearly written for the edification of others, refused to be influenced by them. 

File this one under Emily Dickinson poems to be inspired by. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Solitude by Thomas Harrison, 1889

P.S. That line "dance like no one is watching you" always reminds me of Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams, one of my all time favorite poems.

All but Death, can be Adjusted —

All but Death, can be Adjusted —
Dynasties repaired —
Systems — settled in their Sockets —
Citadels — dissolved —

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —
Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —


       -F789, J749, Fascicle 37, 1863 

Change while you can, because you can’t change death. That’s the blunt point of this poem. All but Death, can be Adjusted —

It’s also a strangely hopeful poem though. If you aren’t dead, you still have time. You can still “adjust.” The poem begins and ends with the inevitability of death, but in the living center of this poem Dickinson teases out just what it is that may still be changed.

Let’s look at these one at a time.

Dynasties repaired —

Death may not be reparable, but, on the other hand, entire dynasties can be repaired. At first glance that’s comforting. But wait a minute, is that really what we want? Do we really want to repair Dynasties? A Dynasty is a family or group that has held power a long time. Maybe it's time for a change? So, this particular change back might be a little suspect.

How about that next one,

Systems settled in their sockets —

First of all, look how well those words fit, trochaically, into the “system” of that line? It fits like a ball in a socket. And the phrase, in turn, fits into the well-oiled socket of the hymn meter of this poem. 

This, we should note is the result of a change from chaos to order. The Dynasties may be in need of repair, but this line is about the process of repair itself. To bring a Dynasty back into order, you better get your systems settled in their sockets.

Finally, this line reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem that was brought to my attention by the terrific bestselling novel by Gabrielle Zevin, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” This poem is mentioned over and over again in the book as the main character meditates on it:

“That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.”

In the socket, in the groove, we are talking about all we know of Love here.

The third process up for consideration here is:

Citadels — dissolved —

A citadel is a city’s fortress. Maybe you could argue that it is good to protect cities (and people) from being invaded, but you might also say that a dissolving citadel would be a very welcome thing, since it would mean there are no more threats. 

So are these desired changes or not? Do Dynasties need repair? Can a system be too in the socket? Does a city need protection?

But, taken on a more inspiring and personal level, you may say that the dynasty (your own reign of power) may be repaired, that your systems (your life) may be gotten back into their sockets, and that you may, it is hoped, learn to let down the guard of your citadel.

The second stanza gives us one more lovely example,

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —

The winter wasteland of your life may be resown with the colors of spring.

If words fit into the system of lines, and the lines fit into the meter of the poem, then this poem fits into the system of the fascicle, the little book into which has been “sown” together (literally) by the author. You can see this idea operating here with the “resown with Colors by Succeeding Springs” because in this same fascicle, a couple poems back, there is one about sewing with the colors of autumn. These lines are a call back to that poem, and part of the system of the fascicle.

I like the double meaning of the word “Succeeding” before "Springs." Succeed can mean coming after, but it can also mean —Success!

Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —

The poem ends where it begins, with the inevitability of death. But between, there are succeeding springs, systems in place, citadels dissolved and dynasties repaired. Do what you’ve got to do, the poem warns. Death’s a-coming.

One more observation here. When I saw the line about systems settled in their sockets I looked, instinctively, to see if Emily did something to the form of this poem to unsettle the system. I first looked at the rhythm and noticed it was nicely settled into its system, but then I looked at the rhyme scheme and noticed that there really isn't one. System subtly disrupted?

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

My daughter Sofia once wrote a poem that has the same double sense 

of the word “succeed" that Dickinson uses in this poem.

"I succeed the seed of me in the breeze.” - Sofia DeGraff