It will be Summer—eventually

It will be Summer—eventually.
Ladies—with parasols—

Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes—

And little Girls—with Dolls—

Will tint the pallid landscape—

As 'twere a bright Bouquet—

Thro' drifted deep, in Parian—

The Village lies—today—

The Lilacs—bending many a year—

Will sway with purple load—

The Bees—will not despise the tune—

Their Forefathers—have hummed—

The Wild Rose—redden in the Bog—

The Aster—on the Hill

Her everlasting fashion—set—

And Covenant Gentians—frill—

Till Summer folds her miracle—

As Women—do—their Gown—

Or Priests—adjust the Symbols—

When Sacrament—is done –

                                                                                          F374 (1862)  342

The poem starts out sweetly: Don’t be discouraged, summer will indeed come on schedule, despite the cold, snow-covered landscape ("Parian" refers to a marble famed for its fine-grained white purity). We see a summer scene sketched out for us: families out for a stroll in their colorful dress, lilacs heavy with purple flowers, bees humming along as they have every summer, and vibrant flowers bringing the hills to life.

Parian marble blocks, Paros Island
Photo: Katerina Lorenzatos Makris

                  The last stanza presents two metaphors for summer. The first is sweet and lovely: Summer can fold and unfold her colors and pretty scenes just as ladies do their gowns. The second is pure Dickinson—a twist with a zing that reverberates on a much deeper level than what has gone before. Following hard on the delicate heels of the careful housewife is the Priest who puts up the communion sets and robes when the service is over.

                  Questions linger, as no doubt Dickinson intended they should. Is the Priest merely acting as the prudent housewife who packs away the winter gowns in spring to protect them? After all, the communion tray and glasses, extra wafers and wine shouldn’t just be left out on the altar. Or is Dickinson suggesting that life itself is like a season and religious symbols are adjusted to represent that? Birth is a spring, of course; old age and death, winter. The sacraments of baptism, marriage, and final communion reflect these seasons.

I also can read in this ambiguous ending the slight suggestion that the symbols are like small toys. The phrase “adjust the Symbols” seems like a small game, a boy putting his toy soldiers away after a mock battle. Life and the seasons sweep on carrying us with them and never revealing themselves. Good housewives adopt practices to match (I’m speaking from the 1800s, not being sexist). Good priests—and church liturgies, sacraments, and rituals should do the same.

As Dickinson said in the previous poem, “… through a Riddle, at the last— / Sagacity, must go—”.  In the meantime, we hunker down in winter and welcome spring.

This World is not conclusion

This World is not conclusion.

A Species stands beyond—

Invisible, as Music—

But positive, as Sound—

It beckons, and it baffles—

Philosophy, don't know—

And through a Riddle, at the last—

Sagacity, must go—

To guess it, puzzles scholars—

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown—

Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—

Blushes, if any see—

Plucks at a twig of Evidence—

And asks a Vane, the way—

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—

Strong Hallelujahs roll—

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul –

                                                                                          F373 (1862)  501

As she does in numerous other poems, Dickinson begins this one with a claim: “This World is not conclusion.” The rest of the poem fleshes that idea out. There is more to reality than this everyday world we live in, but we can only form conjectures about it. Christianity has inspired martyrs but Faith still “slips.” There really is no conclusion—all our searchings lead to questions rather than answers. Existence doesn't "conclude" at death. Dickinson is using both meanings of "conclusion": the answer to a question and the end of an affair.

                  If we divide the poem into five quatrains we can better see the flow of ideas. The first establishes the poet’s belief that there are beings beyond earthly life. They are invisible, like music, but as real as the sound that music makes.

                  Next we see that there is a world beyond this one that “beckons” yet “baffles” us. Philosophy and wisdom can’t help us find it. At the end we must all pass through that “Riddle” that is death to find out what lies beyond.

                  Yet so great is the mystery that scholars continually puzzle over it and the seekers have “borne / Contempt” of their generation and even crucifixion to gain what seems to be the prize that beckons.

                  In the face of uncertainty, Faith is the usual antidote prescribed. But Dickinson puckishly likens faith to a young girl embarrassed by a stumble and blushing if anyone saw her. She “Plucks at a twig of Evidence” to help her balance and glances up at a weathervane to see if any directions are forthcoming. Yes, faith is nice, but it would be better if we were offered a bit of evidence and better directions.

                  Dickinson famously made this same point in her famous poem “Faith is a fine invention”:

Faith is a fine invention

For Gentlemen who see!

But Microscopes are prudent

In an Emergency!

A famous American adage, “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” says the same thing in a different way and comes from a popular song by Frank Loesser after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor that launched the U.S. into World War II. You can’t rest on faith to live your life: grab that microscope or that ammunition and take care of the situation.

Throughout her life Dickinson showed much belief in God but little faith in doctrine. There is an excellent discussion of the role church and religion played in her—and her family’s—life at an Emily Dickinson Museum website. Here is the first paragraph:

Emily Dickinson lived in an age defined by the struggle to reconcile traditional Christian beliefs with newly emerging scientific concepts, the most influential being Darwinism. Dickinson's struggles with faith and doubt reflect her society's diverse perceptions of God, nature, and humankind.

The last four lines of the poem are memorable partly because of the even meter and perfect rhyme (roll / soul) and mostly because of that “Tooth / That nibbles at the soul.” I wonder if a poet exists who didn’t know that tooth—in fact, I wonder if any of us have never felt it. The metaphor is concise: the soul is as a person with a toothache being treated by a dentist. Despite the painkillers and anesthetics the dentist may provide, the toothache endures. The metaphor is expanded however, as it is not the nerves inside the tooth that ache, but the tooth itself that “nibbles.” What gnaws at us spiritually is alive. Gesturing from the pulpit may dull the pain as a narcotic might; “Strong Hallelujahs” from the congregation might help, too. But ultimately that Tooth will nibble at our souls until the day we pass through that Riddle.

In fact, if we look back a few poems (F366, “He strained my faith”), we see the poet tortured by what she considered to be God testing her faith. He “strained” it, “Wrung” her “with Anguish” as if he didn’t know her. Ah yes, Dickinson was well aware of the nibbling Tooth. Sometimes it was just an annoyance, but sometimes it became a full-blown crisis.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—

The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,

And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round—

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

This is the Hour of Lead—

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—

First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—

                                                                                          F372 (1862)  341

If there’s a better poetic marriage of poetic device and meaning, I don’t know of one. Here Dickinson portrays the emotional paralysis that follows grief. The paralysis is mirrored in every line as the poet slows and thickens the pace and sound of the verse.

One device is the spondee (a metrical ‘foot’ with two adjoining accented syllables—such as “great pain” or “First—Chill”). Another is the use of long, drawn-out sounds. This is accomplished with long vowels (e.g., great pain, feeling, bore, before), dipththongs (e.g., round, Ground, Hour), and the dashes that encourage the reader to pause. Commas, too are used as in “Of Ground, or Air, or Ought.” Here the poem practically grinds to a halt as long-sounding words, separated by comma pauses, trail off into the nothingness of “Ought.”

                  The poem has three sections, each represented in a stanza. The first describes the how one feels after “great pain.” The feeling “comes” as if a visitor is paying a “formal” visit. The poor nerves must “sit ceremonious” rather than fall apart weeping. No, they must sit like “Tombs” as if they were impervious and lifeless marble rather than the messengers of pain and pleasure. The heart, too, is “stiff.” In this frozen drawing room it wonders about that former pain born by Jesus as he felt abandoned by God, his father. Yet the heart isn’t clear about this. Did he bear such pain? Was that yesterday? Centuries ago? It’s as if pain transcends and annuls time. The nerves and stiff heart are now no longer able to enter the flow and feeling of the living. They are frozen in a deathly formality.

                  The second stanza shows how the stricken person acts in the world. Their “Feet, mechanical, go round— / A Wooden way.” There is no spring in these steps. The feet themselves have lost all feeling, being just mechanical devices moving woodenly. There is no destination, nowhere to go. The person simply goes round. We see the person pacing the room or the garden, but there is nothing in the ground, nothing in the air, nothing at all—“Ought”—that is noticed. The progression here is a whiting out: ground, air, ought. The world is erased. It is the life of a stone, the “Quartz contentment” recalling the ceremonious tomb of the previous stanza.

Fir trees protected by a still, cold blanket of snow.

                  The last stanza shows the survival of the first wave of the great pain as a type of death. Referencing the stone imagery again, Dickinson introduces the first hour as one of Lead.” “Lead” is not only among the world’s heaviest minerals but has a familiar rhyme with “dead” and “dread.” The phrase itself, “Hour of Lead,” is ponderous and heavy. The stakes are high: it might not be survived. Those who do outlive it remember it as a death. But unlike death from cold, where the sufferer enters a disengaged dream state before losing consciousness and life, the grief survivor survives by “letting go.” I think Dickinson means us to imagine that what is let go is the state of warm vitality—the aliveness that is shut down by the formality, the woodenness, the feeling of lead, and the resulting stupor. As in the “bandaged moments” the soul must protect itself through a wrapped sort of paralysis.

                  The last line is masterly not only for the insight and the word choice, but for the physical sensations involved in the sound and rhythm of the words. The ponderous, slow pace is akin to the freezing process. Three phases are separated by dashes that convey the passage of time. There is a distinct difference among the three stages: “First—Chill” has slow abrupt harshness as if one has hunched down shivering, arms clasped around legs, head on knees. “Then Stupor” has a sluggishness like stupor itself. The gentle iambs of the final phrase—“then the letting go—,” are the final release as the freezing person slips away into final dreams among the soft but lethal snow. The final syllable is dropped and the dash hanging into the white space on the page is a fitting ending.

Is Bliss then, such Abyss

Is Bliss then, such Abyss,

I must not put my foot amiss

For fear I spoil my shoe?

I'd rather suit my foot

Than save my Boot—

For yet to buy another Pair

Is possible,

At any store—

But Bliss, is sold just once.

The Patent lost

None buy it any more—

Say, Foot, decide the point—

The Lady cross, or not?

Verdict for Boot!

                                                                                          F371 (1862)  340

My first reading of this poem finds it considering the pros and cons of virginity. On the one hand the poet expects that making love with her beloved would be blissful. It would certainly please her body, represented here by the foot. On the other hand, for an unmarried woman (in 1860s New England) to have extra-marital sex would be for her to step into the “Abyss” of a blackened reputation. The social regard, the woman’s reputation, are the shoe that protect the foot.

                  I’m not convinced of this interpretation, however. Boots can be bought “At any store,” and this isn’t quite true of reputations. If you ruin your reputation you can’t just trot out and get another, although over time reputations can be repaired. Sins can be forgiven. And maybe churches are what’s meant by “store.” The woman who indulges her bliss can indeed go to church and have her ‘sin’ forgiven.

Verdict for Boot!
1868 Victorian boots

                  What she cannot do, however, is have her virginity back. That “Bliss, is sold just once.” In a bit of a dig towards conventional values and marriage, Dickinson adds that no one would “buy it any more,” suggesting that no one would marry a deflowered woman.

                  Ultimately, the speaker leaves it up to her body / foot. “Decide the point,” she demands of it. “Cross, or not?” The foot decides in favor of the boot, despite the bliss that awaits it.

                  It’s a sensible choice, one mirroring Dickinson’s withdrawal from the world. With every bliss there is an abyss (and how handy that the two polar opposites rhyme!), and if you aim to devote your life to poetry, to writing for hours in your room; and also to caring for mother and father, garden and dog, then perhaps even the foot will defer to the boot.

                  The tone of the poem is cheerfully pragmatic. What’s amazing to me is the wide range of tones over the last ten poems: Gothic romantic horror, cute description of a cat, love poetry, theological questionings, riddles, bitterness, and cockiness. What a year!

Within my Garden, rides a Bird

Within my Garden, rides a Bird

Upon a single Wheel—

Whose spokes a dizzy Music make

As 'twere a travelling Mill—

He never stops, but slackens

Above the Ripest Rose—

Partakes without alighting

And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted—

And then his Fairy Gig

Reels in remoter atmospheres—

And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us

If positive, 'twere we—

Or bore the Garden in the Brain

This Curiosity—

But He, the best Logician,

Refers my clumsy eye—

To just vibrating Blossoms!

An Exquisite Reply!

                                                                                          F370 (1862)  500

The subject of this poem is apparent to most people who have spent time observing the whirling pace and dizzying flight of the hummingbird. Here the poet and her big Newfoundland dog Carlo are out and about in the garden when they see the little bird. Its wings move so fast it does indeed seem as if it is propelled along on a “single Wheel” with humming spokes. To Dickinson it seemed a tiny traveling windmill.

Broad-Tailed hummingbird; photo: Kati Fleming

                  As she watches, it never stops although it does pause for a little sip of nectar from a rose. That done, he “Reels” up to “remoter atmospheres” in the sky. I like the next part where dog and poet look at each other as if to say, “Did you see that? Was a bird really here?” It’s Carlo, “the best Logician,” who provides the answer. He points his nose at the rose, which even the poet’s “clumsy eye” can see is still vibrating. If they questioned the bird’s existence, the quivering rose petals offer “An Exquisite Reply.”

                  The lovely thing about the ending, besides the mental picture of big Carlo pointing at a dainty rose where a tiny hummingbird just visited, is the emphasis on ephemerality: a presence has almost magically come and gone and can truly only be known by the shaking of a summer’s rose. Faith, she almost seems to imply depends on such delicate evidence. I don’t think that implication can entirely be discounted for birds are traditionally—and certainly to Dickinson—a symbol of the divine (in Christianity, the Holy Spirit).