It's easy to invent a Life—

It's easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—
Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—

It's easy to efface it—
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—

The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—

    -F747, J724, Fascicle 37, 1863

Reading essays online about this poem, and even looking at the venerable Helen Vendler's take, one would think this was a poem that was railing against God's lack of concern for human life, but I see it the opposite way. First of all, I think Emily knew better than to blame a deity for the necessity of change, especially since she famously didn't believe in said deity. That would be a strange thing to do.

This is a poem, rather, embracing the necessity for God (read: Nature) to continually erase the old life, and invent new ones. And not only is she embracing it, but she is also identifying with it, which is why she looks at life here in terms of "Perished Patterns," and "invention." God, here, is a playful, but efficient artist. Just like Emily.

It's easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—

Creation keeps on creating, life begets life. This happens every "Day." Day is presented to us here with a capital D, which clues us in that this is a life we're talking about: a "Day"represents a life, just as the "Sun," later in this poem, represents a Son.

Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—

It's easy to efface it—

Is there some Grand Designer that plays willy nilly with life, creating and effacing at whim? Did Emily believe that, or is she setting us up here for a deeper truth?

The philosophical inquiry of this poem centers around a question: if we could live forever, what would be lost? The answer to this question is posed by Dickinson like this,

The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—

If you had eternity, then you would lose spontaneity. You would lose change. To be eternal is, essentially, to stay the same. That’s the thought-provoking core of this poem for me.

God, or, if you will, the universe, is thrifty. To say God is thrifty is, perhaps, to grumble. ("Hey God, how about being more generous and giving us more life!") But seen another way, to be thrifty is good, it’s efficient. Life may gambol, but it doesn’t gamble. It is invested in the future, which is only possible if it moves forward and dies to the past. God, here in the guise of the prime mover, will place a new sun/son (read: child) for every father and mother who becomes effaced. This son/sun will have something the older generation doesn’t. It doesn’t matter what that something is, so much as it matters that there is something different. Each old plan, each "Perished Pattern," meaning, chiefly, ourselves, "murmurs" about this loss and may be quite perturbed by it. But the way of the universe, in a constant state of perturbation, is to be perturbless. You can't upset upsetness itself. You can't destroy destruction. 

(Or can you? She doesn't go there in this poem, but the way to immortality is explored in other poems, including F743 from this same fascicle.)

The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed

You get a philosophical treatise just inside the pattern of those P words. The proliferation of P sounds seems to stem from the word “Plan.” You get the old Plan, which has now become "Perished Patterns," and you get the new Plan, which, in its very changeability, is Perturbless. 

Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—

We all become sun/son or daughter inserted into Eternity, and we all become, eventually, the man or woman left out. (And what a way to put it, "leaving out Man," invoking, as it does, the feeling of becoming old and left out.)

We are, indeed, as sons/suns, part and parcel of the gamboling of creation. Like lambs, we gambol, innocent young things running around a field in joyful abandon. Until we don't. Lambs to the slaughter.

But why grumble when the perturbless plan is what makes life so full of spontaneity, of surprise and wonder? Would we give that up if we could? Would we want to? 

The use of the word “Authority” in the first stanza makes the poem feel like a rebellious complaint. But "Authority" is also a way to invoke the realm of the "Author."

Dickinson, as the Author of this poem, is well acquainted with the necessity to constantly invent new patterns, not to mention disrupting old ones. You could say her entire poetics is based on this idea. For the vast majority of her poems she takes “common meter,” otherwise known as "hymn meter," the signature meter of the church songs rooted in English tradition that were so pervasive in early America, and deconstructs it, both in form and content. This poem is no exception. Hymn meter is 4-3-4-3. The pattern here goes 4-3-3-3/ 3-3-4-3/ 3-3-4-3, which may well be a unique pattern among her works.

This is a poem, as I read it, about learning to accept change, including loss of self.

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Note: 

Emily had no children, that we know of. Her poems may be seen as progeny, still living among us. So the last lines of this poem might be read as the gamboling of her authority:

Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—

There—leaving out a Man—

Or in other words, the poem is the son she has inserted here, leaving out the Man in the process. 

It tossed—and tossed—

It tossed—and tossed—
A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by Blast—
It spun—and spun—
And groped delirious, for Morn—

It slipped—and slipped—
As One that drunken—stepped—
Its white foot tripped—
Then dropped from sight—

Ah, Brig—Good Night
To Crew and You—
The Ocean’s Heart too smooth—too Blue—
To break for You—


    -F746 J723, Fascicle 36


I’ve noticed that when Dickinson throws the word “foot” or “feet” in a poem, you can find something extra going on with the metrical feet of the poem as well. The feet of the poem become the feet of its subject. The form and the content come together; the poem, in this way, becomes its subject. 

The most striking example of this is in the famous poem, “After great pain a formal feeling comes,” which begins with highly regular iambic pentameter. It starts very formally, as one does after great pain. But then just as it begins to talk about "mechanical feet going round and round" the meter breaks and the metrical feet become unsteady. It's as if both poet and poem have become one and in their grief, have lost their footing. By the end of the poem the feet regain their formal feeling and the last two lines are back to iambic pentameter.

You see the play with "foot" here too. The “white foot” of the brig “tripped.” This poem is notably uneven in its meter. It lists back and forth between dimeter, pentameter, trimeter and tetrameter. The pattern is: 2-5-2-4 / 2-3-2-2 / 2-2-4-2. The feet, in other words, trip all over the place in this poem. The meter is tossed and tossed, spun and spun. It slips and slips.

“The white foot tripped” is also notable in this poem as an image. A brig doesn’t have a foot, so what is this? Is the hull of the brig its foot? Is the foot of the brig the white of the wave as the ship goes down? The line reminds you of a person more than it does a ship, which makes you wonder about the nature of the tripping. 

Was the brig the victim of a circumstantial storm, or did it make a mistake (trip) causing its own demise? This question carries some import if you take the brig here as a stand-in for a person. The question of our own fate may even rest on the answer to this question. Through this one word, “tripped,” Dickinson raises the question: “Could this tragedy have been avoided?” The line, “As One that drunken—stepped—” leads one toward reading into this poem the possibility of a self-created storm. This drunk “groped delirious for morn.”

The meter of this poem never becomes regular, but the rhyme scheme does. It starts with typical Dickinsonian slant rhyme, Tossed/ blast, spun/ morn, slipped/ stepped. This, too, mirrors the wild tossing of the ship. But when we get to the ocean, which has calm depths, the rhyme matches almost too perfectly and you get, crew/ too/ blue/ too/ smooth, and then, driving the emphasis home, you get an exact end-rhyme of “You” and “You.” It is a notably heavy inundation of the "ooh" sound. It becomes “smooth” like the ocean. (It is also worth noting that Dickinson sets up this heavy repetition of rhyme in the first stanza with the word "knew.") 

There is a double-sidedness to this poem. There is the tragedy of a ship, or a person, who is caught up in a storm and then drunkenly plunges to its/their death. Then there is the detached ocean who is too blue (cold) and smooth (unruffled) to be concerned. Where does the poet stand in this equation? Is she identifying more with the lost crew or ocean here? That “Ah, Brig—Good Night” at the beginning of the last stanza can be read with a compassionate tone, or it could be read, if more aligned with the ocean, as having a nonchalant tone, as in, “Oh well, Brig, good night.”

This brings us back to the reason for the brig going down in the first place. If this “brig” is a metaphor for a drunk going down, then perhaps some distancing from the tragic figure is necessary. If you’ve ever had a loved one in the throes of addiction, you know what I’m talking about. Beyond an intervention, there is only so much you can do. Sometimes you have to distance yourself.

Still, there are indicators of compassion here, especially in the phrase “little brig I knew.” The fact that the brig was little (especially since brigs are usually quite large) and that the poet "knew" it, leads us to feel empathy. The poet is both warm and cold in this poem.

I think this poem is saying to the reader, “watch your step.”

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"A Storm" J.M.W.Turner

Notes:

1. This poem may have a wild uneven meter, but still, somehow, said out loud, its musical resolve feels perfect. It’s a wonder of poetic composition.

2. A few poems back in this same fascicle you have a calm body of water, a “crescent in the sea,” with a “maelstrom” overhead. Since the two poems were written about the same time, there is, perhaps, a connection, a kind of resolve to the cold depths of being, an escape from those hot and “wild nights,” at least for the time being. 

I'm reminded of the Kris Kristofferson line, "Love will make you crazy, but your soul will keep you sane." 

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–
Never deny Me–Never fly–
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–
Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

    -F745, J722, Fascicle 36, 1863

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Mountains, literal mountains, do not lie. They are the very symbols of the unsymbolic fact. They represent solid thingness, isness.

It took me awhile to get that aspect of this poem. I kept wanting to make religious metaphors out of those mountains, since that is what the poem seems to be doing. But this is a poem, I've come to realize, about doing the opposite; turning the abstract metaphor back into a mountain. In this way, this poem "turns" on the reader.  

Never deny Me–Never fly–

The second line of this poem looks, at first, like a plea: Please “Never deny me! Never fly!” and, because of the dash after "lie," which may be read as a period, you can read it this way. But, if we see this line as, instead, continuing from the first line, with a comma after "lie" instead of a period, then the poem is saying that the mountains don’t lie to you, nor do they deny you, and nor will they fly from you. There’s no reason to beg them not to, because they won’t! Dickinson is crazy clever, using that slippery syntax to turn the line from a plea to fact, which, it turns out, is a key to understanding the entire poem. 

The land itself, those large reminders of the earth below us, which are also rising above us, are unvarying. We can count on the earth.

Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

It is ourselves who cannot be counted on. It is we who “feign” (lie), not the mountains. We deny. We fly. While we “fail or feign,” the mountains “turn on us” with those unvarying eyes, eyes with a “far–slow–Violet Gaze–” (It is we, really, who are turning, just as it is we who are lying. The mountains doen’t turn. They stay steady.) These eyes of the mountains are far-seeing, unlike ours. They are, unlike ours, slow. They take the long view you might say.

The gaze of the mountain is violet. Why? I can think of two reasons. One is that it is sunset. Of course it isn’t sunset for the mountains so much as it is for the viewer. The mountains are too far-seeing to be affected by days and seasons. It isn’t the end of the day for the mountain, but for us. In poetry-parlance the end of a day means the end of a life. We will see this idea confirmed in the next stanza.

But violet is also the color of a flower, and perhaps this mountain is covered with wild violets. The suggestion, at any rate, is there. These mountains are "sweet" like that.

The Sweet Mountains are reconfigured, in the first line of the second stanza, as Strong Madonnas. Sweet Mountains = Strong Madonnas. Notice how Dickinson subtly ties the two together with those initial consonant sounds. Madonna is old Italian for “My Lady.” The mountains aren’t masculine here, as one might expect, but feminine. (One thinks of breasts perhaps?)

Madonna is also a common epithet for Mary, mother of Jesus. Dickinson is having fun here, as she often does, with re-appropriating religious nomenclature. This is funny because she has just intimated to us in the first stanza that the mountains "turn on" her for taking the Royal Names in vain. But when we realize that the mountains are steady, undeniable and far seeing, we get that they are not a bit worried about our taking the “Royal Names in vain.” So here, in the second stanza, she is playing very loose with "Royal Names." (This is a very subtle joke and I didn’t get it until I was writing about it. The pleasures of the deep Dickinson dives are manifold.)

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–

Again, that “Cherish still” seems like a plea, but once you realize that the pleas in the first stanza are, in fact, facts (mountains don’t fly), then you see that “Cherish still” is, also, a fact. These strong ladies, these mountains, cherish the wayward nun no matter what. And by this point in the poem, "wayward," has become tongue-in-cheek. The Poet is less a wayward nun, and more a mountain herself with a far slow gaze. 

“Whose service is to You”

“You,” here, means the mountains, but it also means the reader. She is rendering you a service, by helping you plant your feet on the solid ground, and by aligning your eyes, like she has done, with the far slow gaze of the mountains.

If you keep the double meaning of “You” in mind, then those last lines of this poem are quite moving,

Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

Ah, Emily. How can we not love you?


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–"

Note: One funny little part of this poem I didn't account for is the phrase "beneath the hill."

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–

It is hard to read "beneath the hill" and not think of the wayward nun being buried in the ground. Since we are reading this poem posthumously, it is possible to read these lines as presaging the future: "My strong Madonnas still cherish the wayward nun who is (now) buried beneath the hill and whose service is to You." The poet is still giving service, in the Whitmanic sense, by bequeathing her body to the earth, although, humbly, she has become a hill instead of a mountain, but she's also still giving service to You, in her poetry, and in this very poem. Her future readers, then, are

"Her latest Worship–When the Day

Fades from the Firmament away–"

and she is lifting "her brows on You."

She dwelleth in the Ground—

She dwelleth in the Ground—
Where Daffodils—abide—
Her Maker—Her Metropolis—
The Universe—Her Maid—

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her Thee—be mine—

    -F744, J671, Fascicle 36, 1863


When I first read this poem I assumed from the first line that it was about a woman buried in the ground. But then as I read further and further into the poem this reading no longer made sense. I was stuck. I did some research and found the following helpful information from David Preest:

“We are saved from guessing the name of the flower in this riddle poem, because Fanny Norcross, Emily’s cousin, noted on her copy of the poem that Emily had sent it to her ‘with a crocus,’ and the crocus does indeed dwell and live her life in that ground where the daffodils are biding their time before they appear next. This explanation of the poem is derived from Judith Farr’s book, The Gardens of Emily Dickinson.’”

Ah, thank you David, Judith and Fanny.

Once you have this “key” to the poem, then it is quite lovely to think of the crocus, the first flower of spring, having a maker (and, by extension, all of creation) as its bustling metropolis and the universe as its maid, with the firmament (the sky) bringing the flower grace and hue (color) and fairness (beauty) and renown (fame). That's the job of the firmament and the universe, but the job of plucking the flower and giving it to her cousin Fanny, belongs to Emily.

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
(is the job of) The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her (to) Thee—be mine—

If people can be compared to flowers (a comparison Dickinson has made in other poems,) then the wonderful idea of this poem can be transferred to the self. All of creation is our city, the universe is our maid, and the sky brings us grace and color and beauty and fame. This idea can be seen in a poem from earlier in this fascicle, with mother nature showing us infinite affection and infiniter care. 

It may be the work of the firmament and the universe to take care of us, but it’s the pleasure of the poet to pluck this grand conception of ourselves, put it in a poem, and give it to us.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

 

Behind Me – dips Eternity –

Behind Me – dips Eternity –
Before Me – Immortality –
Myself – the Term between –
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin –

‘Tis Kingdoms – afterward – they say –
In perfect – pauseless Monarchy –
Whose Prince – is Son of None –
Himself – His Dateless Dynasty –
Himself – Himself diversify –
In Duplicate divine –

‘Tis Miracle before Me – then –
‘Tis Miracle behind – between –
A Crescent in the Sea –
With Midnight to the North of Her –
And Midnight to the South of Her –
And Maelstrom – in the Sky –

       -F743, J721, Fascicle 36, 1863

Let me just swoon for a moment before I begin to dive into this poem. It’s so beautiful to hear yourself say. It’s a meditation on time immortalized in the most sumptuous language imaginable.

The music, acting subconsciously, is what gives me that wonderfully visceral sensation. The content is making my mind whirl, but it's the music bolstering the sense, so controlled, yet flowing, that mesmerizes me.

A good way to read a Dickinson poem, I find, is to read it out loud and pay attention to the most prominent consonant sound, watching all the while the way Dickinson weaves it through the poem. The heaviest alliteration in this poem is on the D sound, so try reading the poem just listening for it. It’s studded with Ds. Then read it again, listening for that scattering of Bs in the first stanza and Ps in the second. Notice the way the B and P works in percussively with the D. You begin to consciously hear the soundscape in bits and parts, full of plosive detonations.

This sets us up for a softening in the last stanza with all of those “M” sounds mellowing the mouth, that double “Miracle” and double “Midnight,” the "Me" (echoing the "Myself" in the first stanza) and then that final double “M” of “Maestrom.” MMMMMM. That "Maelstrom" should be a little scary, the maelstrom of our lives over our crescent sea-selves, but because of the eternity stretching out on both sides of us, and the mellowing out sound of the poem itself, the maelstrom just hangs there, threatening, but unable to reach the depths of the Sea.

There is a storm above you and absolute endless midnight black darkness on both sides, but here you are in the depths of your moment, in your “Immortality/ Myself,” and the poetry here, at least, is very beautiful.

Another gorgeous use of sound in this poem is at the end of each line, the open vowel rhymes weaving in and out with the N and R sounds. This is a remarkable rhyming pattern:

Ee, ee, een, ay, ay, in, ay, ee, none, ee, ee, ine, en, een, ee, er, er, aye.

I mean, come on! The music of those sounds are primal and sublime. What’s the effect of it on the body? The open vowel sounds feel as if they are open ended to eternity. And eternity, itself, is softened by the feminine N and R sounds, while the harder sounds are in the middle of the lines. The ends of the lines are open to endlessness.

This is why I swoon. And still, we have barely gotten into the content of this poem.

The poem starts with the revelatory idea that "Eternity" stretches out behind the self and then becomes something more -Immortality- which then lies forever before you. There is a shift, with the advent of your birth, from mere eternity, which may as well be lifeless, to something human, a something carrying within it a divine immortal spark. So how does the mortal emerging from eternity become immortality? This is the question that is being begged by the beginning of this poem. Immortality, and what it means for Dickinson, is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time, and something she herself thought about all of her life, as is evidenced by her letters and poems. 

Dickinson’ poems, for one, feel immortal, not because they will last forever, though I'm sure they will last a very long time, but because they ring so True in the moment. 

The word for the self in the third line is “Term,” which has a multi-valent meaning. There is a "term" meaning unit of time, and there is "term" meaning name. Dickinson conflates these two meanings of the term “term” in this poem, and in doing so shows us the way identity is tied into time itself. There is a third meaning of the word, "term," also in play here. Term can also mean "condition." We are the term, or condition for the Eternity behind us to become the Immortality before us. Somehow Dickinson makes use of all three of these definitions of "term"!

“Death but the drift of Eastern Gray.” The Eastern Gray is the color of sky coming coming in from the East behind you as the Sun recedes in the West before you, just after sunset (or, in poetry-parlance, death). Emily’s decision to capitalize the G of “Gray” gives the color its own significance. It’s as if it were a color on a paint swatch: “Eastern Gray”.

“Dissolving into Dawn away/ before the West begin.” The day is already dawning away behind you. Soon the West, or, in poetry-parlance, death, will begin.

As is so often true with a Dickinson poem, you could stop after the first stanza and it would still be a perfect poem. But this poem is just getting warmed up. The second stanza begins:

“‘Tis Kingdoms – afterward – they say –”

First we take note of the plural of Kingdom. That’s rich. It’s not one Kingdom. We all have our own idea of what heaven might look like, and this vision is tied into our king-like egos. Then we note the wry eyebrow-raise of “they say”. Dickinson is wary of the idea of an afterlife. “They say” seems to infer lack of proof.

In perfect – pauseless Monarchy –
Whose Prince – is Son of None –

"Perfect" is suspect. It seems boring. Pauselessness even more so. (We love a pause don’t we? A recess? These Dickinson lines, written a year or so before this poem, instantly come to mind, “I don't like Paradise –/ Because it's Sunday – all the time –/ And Recess – never comes .”

The Prince, we note, is Son of None. This is a clever play off of “Son of Man.” If Christ is perfect, then He is not the Son of Man, but the Son of None. No man is perfect, therefore what use is it if Christ is?

Himself – His Dateless Dynasty –
Himself – Himself diversify –
In Duplicate divine –

This is a poem that tends toward now, toward the “term,” toward the “date," so "Dateless Dynasty" is just not where it’s at. It’s in the moment, in the life. You could take the line "Himself – Himself diversify in duplicate divine" as just “more of the same.” But I can also see it as a turning point in this poem, a moment in which Christ diversifies to become an imperfect individual being, to become each of us, during our term here on earth. There are several poems where Dickinson identifies with Christ. A perfect God is not so interesting to Dickinson, but the courageous human Christ in each of us is a worthy ideal. This potential Christ-self, in which we are willing to transcend our singularity for the sake of love, is where Immortality begins.

That is perhaps the "Miracle before me" with which the third stanza begins. There have been Christs (Miracles) behind us and there will be more Christs (Miracles) before us too, if we can only but follow that miraculous example.

But what is between? “A Crescent in the Sea.” What do you make of that? I take it as the crescent shape of the sea itself, which is shallow at both ends and deep in the middle. It could also be the reflection of the moon in the sea, which would be natural with Midnight to the North and South. The reflection of the moon in the Sea makes a gorgeous metaphor for the self. The word crescent comes from the latin “crescere,” which means to grow. This ocean is still growing. It’s not perfect, rather it is in process. (It's a stretch, but it is also occurs to me that the letter C, for Christ, is a crescent of sorts; the Crescent in the Sea/C.)

A Crescent in the Sea –
With Midnight to the North of Her –
And Midnight to the South of Her –
And Maelstrom – in the Sky –

It is Midnight to the North and South, the time between Sunset to the West and Sunrise to the East. And the storm above us is raging!

      -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

"Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray"  

Note: I would love to see a book in which the first half contained just the dozens of Dickinson poems that include the word Eternity. The latter half of the book would include the poems that contain the word Immortality. This poem would be smack dab in the middle, with a blank page on either side of it.

Good Night—Which put the Candle out?

Good Night—Which put the Candle out?
A jealous Zephyr—not a doubt—
Ah, friend, You little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The Angels—labored diligent—
Extinguished—now—for You!

It might have been the Light House Spark—
Some Sailor—rowing in the Dark—
Had importuned to see—
It might have been the waning Lamp
That lit the Drummer— from the Camp—
To purer Reveille—

      -F322, J259, Fascicle 36

This poem has already been beautifully commented on in this blog by Susan Kornfeld back in 2012. (12 years ago!) See F322. The reason I am re-posting the poem now is because, if, instead of Franklin's order, we were following the order of the poems as Dickinson preserved them in the fascicles, then this poem would be the next one up in fascicle 36. 

I will usually just skip a poem if it has shown up earlier in Franklin's order and Susan has already commented on it, but I wanted to revisit this one because it is one of my favorite Dickinson poems. Also, I am invested in seeing the poems in context in the fascicles. Each fascicle may be read, I am convinced, as a cogent work. 

Sometimes a poem may guide our lives, just as a star, or a lighthouse, will guide a sailor. This poem comes back to me more often as a guide than perhaps any other poem I have ever read. 

It reminds me that any jealous thought, which means ANY attachment, puts out the light that shines within. If we could only truly realize how hard the angels (which may be read as the divine, or, at the very least, the generations before us) have labored to light this flame in us, then surely we wouldn't blow it out so carelessly with our petty jealousies. 

And what is lost? It is not just our own light at stake, but the light of some other souls who may well have been guided by ours. 

This poem is a "purer reveille." It's hard to imagine a better way of saying "wake up." This is the kind of poem that has the power to change a life. It is the star it urges you to be. 

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

No Prisoner be—

No Prisoner be—
Where Liberty—
Himself—abide with Thee—

     -F742, J720, Fascicle 36, 1863

Dickinson poems can be useful in a variety of ways. Some are extremely complex and meant as a way to get inside of a difficult truth. See the first poem in this fascicle. Some are easy as pie. See the last poem in this fascicle before this one, which is mainly concerned about getting across the feeling of a mother’s infinite care. You don't want a knotty poem when you are trying to comfort a child.

This poem is useful in a different way. It functions as a mantra meant to liberate. It's pithy enough to memorize and say over and over to yourself, which is a good way to drum its idea into your head. Say it to yourself until you start to believe it. This would be an especially powerful thing to do when you feel like you are in prison.

What -is- Liberty? As you are saying it again and again you can turn it over in your mind and contemplate what Liberty means to you. This is a powerful question to ponder. 

You can also sing it over and over to yourself. I tried singing rounds of it in the key of D.

(D) No Prisoner be—
(D) Where Liberty—
Him (A) self—abide with (D) Thee—

Because it's so simple, you can play around with the different melodic possibilities inside the structure as you repeat it. That repetitive "ee" sound beautifully lends itself to elongating the notes at the end of each musical phrase in ascending and descending patterns. There is Liberty in playing around with it. There is Liberty in singing itself. You can sing this very poem wherever you go, in whatever prison you happen to find yourself in. In that sense this poem, itself, is the Liberty that is abiding with thee.

What might Dickinson have meant by Liberty? Well, since you have "Himself" with a capital H,  it could be Christ. Dickinson had a complex identification with Christ. He symbolizes for her the idea of dying for love. Prison (and pain in general) is suggested, in more than one of her poems, as something that may be transcended through a Christ-like love. See, for example, F739, from this fascicle, or the one about the martyr poets, F669.

"Himself" may also be a lover. There are also several poems where the "He" that sets you free is seen to be an earthly love. Both Charles Wadsworth and Sue Gilbert are possible candidates for the "Himself" of this poem.

Or it could be some strange combination of these two possibilities. A whole study could be made of the conflation between Christ and Lover in Dickinson’s poems. There are dozens of poems that center around this idea (See Fascicles 33 and 34 for more of this.)

But I think this line of questioning is largely beside the point. It is significant that the identity of Himself is left vague and open, for the sake of the reader. Christ? Buddha? Allah? Lover? Poetry? Just the -idea- of Liberty could be enough to set you free.

Try memorizing this poem, which you can do in less than a minute, repeating it like a mantra, and see what it ends up meaning for you. 

Inside the poem, itself, is the key to open the prison. But it may take a few turns of the key to unlock it.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Note: I often wonder if Dickinson read William Blake. Blake is the master of the pithy aphorism. Here is a Blake poem that also has the power to set you free:

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise

Nature – the Gentlest Mother is,

Nature – the Gentlest Mother is,
Impatient of no Child –
The feeblest – or the waywardest –
Her Admonition mild –

In Forest – and the Hill –
By Traveller – be heard –
Restraining Rampant Squirrel –
Or too impetuous Bird –

How fair Her Conversation –
A Summer Afternoon –
Her Household – Her Assembly –
And when the Sun go down –

Her Voice among the Aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest Cricket –
The most unworthy Flower –

When all the Children sleep –
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps –
Then bending from the Sky –

With infinite Affection –
And infiniter Care –
Her Golden finger on Her lip –
Wills Silence – Everywhere –

       -F741, J790, Fascicle 36, 1863

I can imagine this poem in an Emily Dickinson collection for children. It describes an ideal mother, but it does more than just describe. It actually gives us a sense of what it feels like to have an ideal mother. 

We know Emily’s mother wasn’t so ideal. In a later letter to Higginson in 1870, she bluntly said that, "I never had a mother. I suppose a mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.” 

Not only did Emily find that mother she needed in nature, but here, in describing it so wonderfully, she has made the idea of the perfect mother realized for all future generations to see. You might say that through this poem Emily is mothering mothers, using the mother of all mothers as her prime and perfect example.

Nature – the Gentlest Mother is,
Impatient of no Child –
The feeblest – or the waywardest –
Her Admonition mild –

For starters, mothers and future mothers, try to be impatient of no child. All mothers will know just how difficult of an ideal this is. Being a parent myself I well know what a tall order this is. When it comes to parenting, and life, patience may indeed be the greatest of virtues.

Mother Nature may be patient with all children, even the feeblest and most wayward, but we also note that She will still admonish when need be, albeit mildly. Isn't the mother we all wish for, one who guides us gently, with infinite patience?

In Forest – and the Hill –
By Traveller – be heard –
Restraining Rampant Squirrel –
Or too impetuous Bird –

Rampant squirrels are "restrained" by Mother Nature, and so are impetuous birds and the traveler can hear this in the forest and hills. It would have to be quite a squawking racket for a passing traveler to hear, wouldn't it? Are the rampant squirrel and impetuous birds checked by bigger animals trying, and sometimes succeeding, in eating them? After all, this is part of nature too. This doesn’t really seem like such a mild admonishment, and doesn't fit the loving tone of the poem, but I think Emily is having fun here. Mild admonishment from nature may mean a few errant squirrels and birds are picked off. Nature is working on a different scale.

How fair Her Conversation –
A Summer Afternoon –
Her Household – Her Assembly –
And when the Sun go down –

“How fair Her Conversation.” Okay, now we’ve switched soundscapes, from the squeals and squawks of admonishment, to the beautiful Conversation (capital C) on a summer afternoon, where you can hear, say, if you listen closely, the hare sniffing a carrot, or, louder still, the birds calling their mates across the upper regions of the forests. This is the assembly (the family) in Nature's household, which is a charming way to think of the forest. 

Her Voice among the Aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest Cricket –
The most unworthy Flower –

What aisles are there in nature? What is Emily talking about here? The first thing I think of are aisles of trees, but we also have, via association with aisles of pews, entered into a church. We've been in this particular church with Emily before. See F238 for one great example, and F21 for another. 

When the sun goes down, what is it we hear among the aisles of trees? We hear the “timid prayer” of the smallest cricket. It's funny to think of a cricket’s insistent chirp as a prayer. A simple line like this one can tweak the way you hear crickets forevermore. But how about a flower? What sound does the prayer of an “unworthy” flower make in the evening? Here you have to imagine something extra-auditory, a frequency far beyond the norm.

But I suspect there is a little joke involved in the idea of the timid prayer of the most unworthy flower. It is humans that see themselves as unworthy, not flowers. The subtle point I think Dickinson is making here is that there are no unworthy flowers, and, if we could only but see ourselves as flowers we would no longer see ourselves as timid and unworthy.

When all the Children sleep –
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps –

The image of Mother Nature turning on her moon and star lamps is adorable. (And ancient too. I remember the lines from Beowulf, “both sun and moon,/ the lamps of light for those living on land,”.)

I can appreciate the line, “as long away as will suffice.” Nature only goes as far as she needs to. But this is another funny moment in the poem, because look how far she goes! All the way out to the moon, and then to the stars beyond them. It’s a very long way away that "suffices" for these lamps to be turned on. Make of that what you will.

Okay, so Mother Nature has turned on the night light, to comfort Her children, and to give them a soft light in case one of them needs to go in the middle of the night. 

Then bending from the Sky –

With infinite Affection –
And infiniter Care –
Her Golden finger on Her lip –
Wills Silence – Everywhere –

What a beautiful thought, that nature has infinite affection for us. Not everyone’s going to buy that idea, I know. Nature can seem quite cruel. (See the bit about animals being eaten above.) But this is a poem directing us, in part, in how to be a good mother, so let’s just focus for now on how sweet nature can be. To begin with we have the sweetness in the nature of sleep.

"Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, Chief nourisher in life's feast." -William Shakespeare

And then, as if infinite Affection wasn’t enough, we have even infiniter Care. That’s where my reasoning brain shuts off and I get, instead, that feeling of being mothered by the poem itself. It leads me to imagine, and therefore feel, what it means to have infinite Affection and infiniter Care. 

It’s a kind of joke that anything could be infiniter than infinity, but there's also a kind of truth to this joke. Care IS infiniter. As Dickinson says in a letter a few years after this poem was written,

“When infinite Space is beheld
And all Dominion shown
The smallest Human Heart’s extent
Reduces it to none.”

The smallest Human Heart’s extent is greater than infinite dominion. Why? Infinity would be empty without love and care, which, after all, can only take place in small ways in the moment itself. 

Infinite affection and infiniter care. That is the motherly ideal. Is it true that Nature is infinitely affectionate and caring? Well, if Emily, who is one of the toughest skeptics I know of, thinks so, there must be some truth to it. 

In my imagination the "golden finger on Her lip" at the end of this poem is the golden rays of the sun reflecting on the moon in early evening. This magic hour moment Wills silence everywhere. We must obey this Will because, eventually, we must sleep, just as we must die. But this sleep, this death, as it is presented in this poem, this Willed silence, is one thought to be born of infinite affection and infiniter care. Thanks to Emily Dickinson's grace and largesse, this is a sleep I can now enter a bit more peacefully, basking in the infinite Affection and infiniter Care of Nature Herself. This poet has lovingly mothered us through her writing of this very poem.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Super blue moon over a pond in Nevada MO, 

as seen from my mother's house, 8/20/24

notes:

1. The word "Assembly" here is a reflection of the word "Assembly" in the poem proceeding this one. The former poem used Assembly as a descriptor for God. This one uses it as a descriptor for family in the house of Nature. It's fascinating to watch Dickinson turn words over and over as she writes her poems. This poem also shares the word "suffice" with the previous poem. And the poem before that one had the word "sufficient" in it. The word infinite or eternity is in almost every poem in this fascicle thus far. The word "recollect" is in the first two poems of this fascicle. In this way the words becomes like monadic stars, and the poems like constellations. 

2.  I haven't written much about the actual music of Dickinson's language for awhile, but it is worth taking note of that first line, "Nature – the Gentlest Mother is,". First of all, the natural way to write this would be "Nature is gentlest mother." If we look at the possible reasons why Dickinson weirds this line, we can begin to get some insight into her process. Stating the object of the sentence first enables it to take the initial role in the poem. "Nature" sits there and glows all by itself for a moment. Then, by the way the sentence is restructured you get that idea of pure being that the "is" gives you sitting at the end of the line. Nature, the gentlest mother IS. You also get the satisfaction of a slant rhyme when you get to the third line; "mother is" rhymes subtly with "waywardness." Dickinson deploys a rare comma after "is" which is interesting because without the comma the line would dovetail perfectly with the the next line, "Impatient of no Child –," but this choice makes me think she wanted that "is" to be left as pure verb, pure isness. The z sound at the end of the word is soft and comforting as well, like the Nature in this poem. You hear this sound reflected later in the poem too, as the sound of "is" extends into the sound of "aisles."