Robbed by Death—but that was easy—

Robbed by Death—but that was easy—
To the failing Eye
I could hold the latest Glowing—
Robbed by Liberty

For Her Jugular Defences—
This, too, I endured—
Hint of Glory—it afforded—
For the Brave Beloved—

Fraud of Distance—Fraud of Danger,
Fraud of Death—to bear—
It is Bounty—to Suspense's
Vague Calamity—

Staking our entire Possession
On a Hair's result—
Then—seesawing—coolly—on it—
Trying if it split—

    Fr838, J971, Fascicle 40, 1864

Reading Emily Dickinson is delectable. Every line gives you something tasty to chew on and mull over. The music of the words is like seasoning. And then, often, when the full poem hits you, it is devastating. It makes you feel sick. You may want to vomit up all that poesy. And yet that is something we need too, to purge. We need to be made uncomfortable in order to open up. That's what good literature does for us, at its best. It engages our minds, and finally, our hearts.

Robbed by Death—but that was easy—

The first line of this poem is a doozy. I think it makes more sense if you think of Robbed by Death as “Robbed OF Death.” She is saying that death robbed her by not taking her. In other words, she would prefer not to be alive. But we also find out in that first line that staying alive, even if it is harder than dying, was still easy...

To the failing Eye

Here is an excellent example of the slipperiness of Dickinson’s use of dashes. If you take the first two lines together, then the failing eye could mean the failing eye of the one who was robbed, or it could mean the failing eye of the one who is reading this poem. Add to this ambiguity the fact that the word “fail” is not a pejorative in Dickinson’s lexicon. In another poem, for instance, the poet “fails” for beauty.

Okay, but then after you read the third line you realize, after having already processed the first two lines together, that the dash at the end of line one better functions as a full stop. So now we have a different unit:

Robbed by Death—but that was easy.

To the failing Eye

I could hold the latest Glowing—

So we regather the sense of a full sentence. "I was robbed of death, but that was easy, because living enabled me to hold up the latest glowing to the failing eyes of others: I could be a light to those who are dying."

I had to work a bit for that reading, but it's such a beautiful idea that it was worth working for, and it is, somehow, worth more because of having to work for it. It sticks deeper.

There's so much in the idea of holding the "latest Glowing.” Literally, it would mean that you are holding a candle to help the failing eye to see. But a held "Glowing" could be glowing eyes too, or the glowing warm flame of a soul, or even a poem. Dickinson would rather be dead than have to deal with the pain of living, but if she is going to have to live, she is going to hold the latest glowing up to the dying eyes of her beloved. You realize as you read this poem that for the reader, which is now you, this poem IS the latest Glowing and you are the (hopefully) brave beloved. Look at the poem on the screen. Doesn't it appear to glow?

This is a promising opening. We want to see the full light of the candle, the glowing apotheosis of the poem. So we read on.

Robbed by Liberty

For Her Jugular Defences—
This, too, I endured—
Hint of Glory—it afforded—

Robbed by liberty. How does liberty rob? How does freedom limit? Think about how quickly a teenager who runs away from home learns that lesson. Liberty goes for the jugular! 

For Dickinson liberty had its own special meaning. In Matty Dickinson’s charming memoir of Dickinson, Face to Face, she tells of how her Aunt Emily once mimed turning the lock on her bedroom door and said to her: “It’s just a turn— and freedom, Matty!”

Part of Dickinson’s "Glory" as a poet is that she maintained her inverse freedom. She endured it. The Glory, the direct result of Dickinson’s pursuit of liberty, are these poems, which have indeed held, still Glowing, for our own failing eyes.

For the Brave Beloved—

This next line, again because of the dashes, is also difficult to parse syntactically. Does it finish a thought or begin a new one? These kinds of lines are what I call a sliding modifier, and Dickinson uses them often. Either way you read the line, as a prefix or suffix, it informs the poem. Here it all points to one source. It’s all for the sake of the Brave Beloved.

The poet is being brave in this poem, and she is being brave for the sake of a brave beloved.  But "brave beloved" is wishful thinking here. After all, the beloved proves in the latter half of this poem to be indecisive. Dickinson is saying if you would only be brave, then I would respond by giving you my entire possession. 

Fraud of Distance—Fraud of Danger,
Fraud of Death—to bear—

For the brave beloved I can bear Distance, Danger and, again, for emphasis, Death. All of it I will, and can, endure, spurred on by your love.

It is Bounty—to Suspense's
Vague Calamity—

All of that difficulty of danger and death is “Bounty” compared to being in suspense.  Difficulty in love is Bounty because at least you will grow from your efforts and sacrifices. I presume Dickinson is speaking of the suspense of whether or not the beloved will return her love, or even can return it.

To know is to respond decisively. But if the initial act is a maybe, is "Vague," then that’s true Calamity because then the love is in limbo. We are in stasis. There is no growth, no Life.

Staking our entire Possession
On a Hair's result—

If we are in love, then we are ready to give all of ourselves, our “entire Possession” to our beloved. But what if the beloved is indecisive, and could go either way? Just a hair's breadth, the smallest detail, could change the whole deal. It’s unfair that for one party the stakes should be complete surrender, while for the other the result is neither here nor there, fifty-fifty, iffy.

But then Dickinson makes an imaginative leap and now the hair's difference between yes or no is one the beloved is swinging on, as if glibly testing it. 

Then—seesawing—coolly—on it—
Trying if it split—

The thought of the beloved seesawing “coolly” on her decision, back and forth, is coolly devastating, and we can see just what is so painful about this suspense for the author. The poet is a “soul at white heat,” but the beloved is cool, indifferent. And not only that, but almost seems to be wanting the hair to split, by swinging so carelessly on the decision. If the hair breaks though, it is the poet, not the beloved, who drops into oblivion.

Dickinson has written about the agony of suspense before, most notably in Fr755, which makes a similar claim, "Suspense is-hostiler-than-death." Here, she makes the word suspense come to life by imagining the beloved suspended in the air, holding onto a hair between her decision of yes or no.

Does this metaphor of hair work? On one hand it means little separates the decision between yes or no, but on the other hand the scantiness of the thin strand is what makes the weight of the love so precarious.

Also, hair is such a personal physical connection to the beloved.  

The last word of the poem, the violent "split," is confusing at first. We think of the phrase splitting hairs here, in the sense of a vertical splitting of a hair, as in making small and unnecessary decisions, and maybe Dickinson was playing with that idea as well, how we argue our points until we are lost, but here she is talking about the hair splitting horizontally, as if the future is in the balance, and just holding on by a thread.

In the first 5/8ths of this poem we are privy to Dickinson’s brave love, as one who would take on any threat to her life, happily, for the beloved, and then, in the last 3/8ths of the poem, there is a turn-around, and Dickinson shows us what it means when all of that devotion and bravery is undermined by an indecisive partner.

I would be willing to die for you, the poet says, and you can’t even bother to let me know if that’s good enough for you?

Well, ours may not be the voice Dickinson was hoping to hear from, when she wrote this poem, but still, as its belated recipients, we can answer that her love was not just good enough, it's still the latest Glowing.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. All the reproductions of this poem I could find online have the word “stalking” instead of “staking.” I assume one bad transcription of the poem has led to all of those others. I was sure “stalking” must be wrong and so I looked it up in Christanne Miller’s “Poems as She Preserved Them,” and sure enough, the correct word is “staking." Hopefully this blog will serve as a corrective. 

P.P.S. David Preest's paraphrase of this poem is much different than mine, but it's tenable, and I think it's worth posting here for the sake of options. "When I was robbed of a dear one by death, I was at least able to hold a light of hope to his dying eye (1-3). When I was robbed of a dear one who went to fight for the defenses of his country’s liberty, I could at least think that my brave beloved had a hint of glory in prospect (3-8). Indeed to be deprived of a friend by the specific danger of distant battle or by death is sheer ‘Bounty’ compared to the calamity of the vagueness of the suspense over life after death (9-12). For the chances of immortality or annihilation are so evenly balanced that only a hair separates them, and we seesaw in suspense between them, trying to split the hair so as to come firmly down on one side or the other (13-16).

I make His Crescent fill or lack—

I make His Crescent fill or lack—
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter—as I signify—
His Tides—do I control—

He holds superior in the Sky
Or gropes, at my Command
Behind inferior Clouds—or round
A Mist's slow Colonnade—

But since We hold a Mutual Disc—
And front a Mutual Day—
Which is the Despot, neither knows—
Nor Whose—the Tyranny—


      -Fr837, J909, Fascicle 40, 1864


There is a power dynamic here between the sun and the moon. The sky, under Dickinson's watch, becomes a playground of power and sly reversals. The poet kicks off with a flourish of authority. “I make His Crescent fill or lack— / His Nature is at Full / Or Quarter—as I signify— / His Tides—do I control—.” She’s the Sun, master of moon and tides. You can practically hear her delight in the audacity.

The sun/self signifies and therefore controls, which is why it is presented to us in the first person. 

If you are looking from the position of the Self, which we all are, after all, then you may realize that you have the ability to make another “superior in the Sky,” or you may make them crawl and “grope.”

But a turn-around begins to happen in the second stanza. The other, the one being controlled, may be obscured by “inferior clouds,” but He will still shine through, and He will still “round/ A Mist’s slow Colonnade.” 

That last phrase is gorgeous. You imagine that the atmosphere, in league with the sun, doing what it can to obscure the moon, by slowly erecting a colonnade. A colonnade is a row of columns, which is something we think of as quite solid. And note the ominous word "slow." But here the colonnade is shown to be merely a mist that the moon rounds. The moon not only shines through the inferior clouds but also gives depth, gives roundness, to the mist.  The word “Colonnade” is also perfect here because of the way it echoes the sounds of “control,” “Command” and “Clouds” which precede it. 

In the third stanza we get a new idea hinging on the word “since.”

But since We hold a Mutual Disc—
And front a Mutual Day—
Which is the Despot, neither knows—
Nor Whose—the Tyranny—

 So if you are reading this from the Sun/self’s point of view, the poem presents to you the idea that your power is ultimately illusory. But if you are the "other," the one under control, this poem becomes about resilience.

The moon, quietly, survives. Hidden behind clouds or quartered in phase, it holds its disc, keeps its rhythm. The moon’s sovereignty is cheeky. It refuses to be fully dominated. It exhibits endurance and autonomy, all under the radar of a would-be master. The moon may be perceived as quartered, but to itself it is always full, and there is always a new chance to shine, always a new day to “front.”

Dickinson is showing us that power is never as tidy as we think. Authority is provisional and sovereignty comes in hidden strength. Even when domination seems total, resilience quietly asserts itself.

We are reminded to remember our innate roundness and keep our rhythm. 

        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh. 

P.S. This poem seems to be an elaboration of sorts of the poem that precedes it in the fascicle, Fr836. There, death is the great equalizer. In the grave, distinctions vanish. Here, life itself levels the playing field. The sun may shine, the speaker may boast, but the moon persists.

P.P.S. I can't help but think of Taming of the Shrew here. Petruchio gets Kate to say the Moon is the Sun. Her willingness to do so undermines him, and in the end we are left wondering who exactly has won "the field." 

Katherina: Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;

And if you please to call it a rush-candle,2280

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Petruchio: I say it is the moon.

Katherina: I know it is the moon.

Petruchio: Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

Katherina: Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun;2285

But sun it is not, when you say it is not;

And the moon changes even as your mind.

What you will have it nam'd, even that it is,

And so it shall be so for Katherine.

Hortensio: Petruchio, go thy ways, the field is won.

Color — Caste — Denomination —

Color — Caste — Denomination —
These — are Time's Affair —
Death's diviner Classifying
Does not know they are —

As in sleep — All Hue forgotten —
Tenets — put behind —
Death's large—Democratic fingers
Rub away the Brand —

If Circassian — He is careless —
If He put away
Chrysalis of Blonde—or Umber —
Equal Butterfly —

They emerge from His Obscuring —
What Death — knows so well —
Our minuter intuitions —
Deem unplausible —


     -Fr836, J970, Fascicle 40, 1864

Dickinson often starts with an idea, which, in this case, would be that death doesn’t discriminate, and then explores and expands upon that idea until something deeper about it is revealed. Part of the joy, for me, is watching the way she starts by weaving her idea around the sounds it evokes. It is clear in this poem that the poet takes the C and D sounds of that opening line and then consciously repeats them throughout the rest. But more is going on than just the C and D alliteration. The R sound of “Color,” for instance, leads to the end rhymes of “Affair” and “are.” And there are sound clusters too, like how the CLR sound in “Color” comes back strongly in the third stanza with Circassian, careless and Chrysalis. The result is a subtle music that is beautiful beyond compare. Few poets can do this as well as Dickinson, and none better.

Another remarkable thing is to watch how further ideas spin out of the original. If you are looking for it, every new line may carry some new revelation. In the first stanza we find out, for instance, that Death doesn’t discriminate based on color of skin, religion (denomination) or class (caste). These are all big issues, and each would have been even more divisive in Dickinson’s day than it is now. Dickinson was white, upper class and raised in a protestant society, but here she is dismissing all of that, or at least acknowledging that Death does.

But then she says something curious, that Death has a “diviner Classifying.” What is she getting at here? In a poem before this one in the fascicle, Fr834, there is the idea of being patient and constant, so that in death you will be worthy of Grace. This seems to me to be the sense here too. We see in a later stanza that something graceful, like a butterfly, “emerges” after death. 

There is a bit of a paradox in this poem though. There is a hint of the idea of a diviner classifying being one where there is no classification, and by extension, there is the suggestion that those who classify aren’t fit for death. We see this paradox play out in other Dickinson poems, like this one, Fr797, in which she tells us that the definition of beauty is that there is no definition. 

As in sleep — All Hue forgotten —
Tenets — put behind —
Death's large—Democratic fingers
Rub away the Brand —

In this stanza Dickinson hints toward other ideas. American “democracy” is lampooned a little in the phrase “Death's large—Democratic fingers.” America purports to be democratic, but has it ever truly been? Only death’s fingers are truly democratic. And what do they do? They rub away the brand. With brand you get a metonym of capitalism. I’m not sure if “brand” meant the same thing in 1864 that it does now, so Dickinson may just be referring to a cow’s brand here. But even that definition brings to mind the idea of commerce, of chattel, of ownership. A true democracy would get rid of any hot iron branding altogether. Everything would be shared by all alike. In Dickinson’s dark irony, though, it is only Death that can truly do this.

If Circassian — He is careless —

Careless here means that Death couldn't care less whether you are Circassian or not. You might be tempted to think, as I did at first, that Dickinson chose the ethnic group Circassian based on the way the sound of the word echoes the soundscape of the poem, but, alas, it would seem that nothing is careless in Dickinson’s poetry. The Circassians were very much in the news in 1864 when this poem was written for being an exiled people. 

From Wikipedia:

“The native Circassian population was largely decimated or expelled to the Ottoman Empire. Only those who accepted Russification and made agreements with Russian troops, were spared. Starvation was used as a tool of war against Circassian villages, many of which were subsequently burned down. Russian writer Leo Tolstoy reported that Russian soldiers attacked village houses at night. British diplomat Gifford Palgrave, stated that "their only crime was not being Russian." Seeking military intervention against Russia, Circassian officials sent "A Petition from Circassian leaders to Her Majesty Queen Victoria" in 1864, but were unsuccessful in their attempt to solicit aid from the British Empire.That same year, the Imperial Russian Army launched a campaign of mass deportation of Circassia's surviving population. Many died from epidemics or starvation. Some were reportedly eaten by dogs after their death.”

Circassian Zalumma Agra, by Mathew Brady, ca. 1865.

Zalumma was presented as a freak in P.T. Barnum's circus.

Same problems, different day.

If He put away
Chrysalis of Blonde—or Umber —
Equal Butterfly —

Dickinson’s choices for Chrysalis colors here reflect the hair color of the Russians and the Circassians, blonde and umber. In death it doesn’t matter which you are, an “equal” butterfly emerges.

The idea of emerging as a butterfly reflects a belief in an after-life, of some kind at least. The idea of our life here on earth being our chrysalis is an instructive one. Did Emily believe in an afterlife? I’m starting to think that maybe she did. 

But belief in an afterlife is not necessary for this poem. Getting beyond the trappings of identity doesn’t necessitate an actual death. It could also be achieved through renunciation in life. In other words, it would be a symbolic death, the death of an ego. You might say that this is the only kind of death we can ever really understand, since actual death is beyond our ken.

Either way, our democratic equality, our freedom, is not to be found in life as we know it. It is the removal of the ties of identity, such as color, caste and creed, that frees us. 

They emerge from His Obscuring —
What Death — knows so well —
Our minuter intuitions —
Deem unplausible —

Something akin to butterflies emerge from death’s obscuring of the self. Our “minuter intuitions” tell us that the emergence of something after death is "unplausable," but Death well knows that the butterfly will soar once the veil of the chrysalis has been torn.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

He who in Himself believes—

He who in Himself believes—
Fraud cannot presume—
Faith is Constancy's Result—
And assumes—from Home—

Cannot perish, though it fail
Every second time—
But defaced Vicariously—
For Some Other Shame—


    -Fr835, J969, Fascicle 40, 1864


This one starts off in a variation of the advice Polonius gives to Laertes in Shakepeare’s Hamlet:

“This above all- to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

Dickinson's version:

He who in Himself believes—
Fraud cannot presume—

There's a difference though, it seems to me, between being true to yourself and believing in yourself. The first means looking at yourself honestly, doing your best not to fool yourself. But to believe in yourself takes fortitude and will-power. You have to know what it is you are believing in. You have to know who you are and what you are about. Once you do, and will, fraud cannot “presume” anything different.

We get a sense of the difference in the turn-around presented to us in the following line,

Faith is Constancy's Result—

Normally we would say that constancy is faith’s result. You have faith and therefore you are constant. But here we start with constancy. Faith is something earned through action. That’s a great twist. It’s not really faith though if it is the result of action, is it? It’s more like “knowing.”

In the sense of “knowing,” we are led to a very powerful word in Dickinson’s lexicon: Home.

Faith is Constancy's Result—
And assumes—from Home—

Dickinson has written elsewhere of the “infinite power of Home.” And though by Home Dickinson means something fundamental, we can’t help but remember that Dickinson died in the home she was born in. She was, indeed, very constant to her family, as well as to her friends.

The idea of assuming “from Home” is powerful too. Assume is an odd word, a contranym almost. It can mean to believe something without having all the facts (similar to faith,) but it can also mean to support, as in “assume a debt” and, even, to become, as in assuming a body.

I think of the beginning of Whitman’s Song of Myself. “What I assume you shall assume/ for every atom belonging to me as well belongs to you.” Whitman is talking about belief, but also about the idea of assuming a form. The two opposing meanings are mystically tied together. We end up becoming (assuming) what we believe (assume).

So, our faith is assumed from a constancy to our Home, and all that Home entails.

Cannot perish, though it fail
Every second time—

If you believe in yourself, and your home, you will eventually succeed, though you fail often. “Every second time” is funny. I like the odds though. Half the time you will fail. But half the time you will succeed too.

But defaced Vicariously—
For Some Other Shame—

“Defaced vicariously” is a pointed phrase. Vicarious, according to the Dickinson lexicon means, “Proxy; representative; substituting; acting on behalf of another; carried out in another's stead.” So, essentially, you are someone else, not your true self, when you are brought to “Shame.” You are “defaced.” Your face is taken away and replaced with someone else’s, someone who is not the true you “whom in himself believes.”

The poem ends in “Shame.” But the message seems to be to try, try again. It’s all about that constancy.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I find the slant-rhyme in this pleasing and curious. Presume/ Home/ Time/ Shame, with internal rhyme of Assume and Some. All of it seems to be honing into the sound of Home.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

That's Emily's Home. Her window is on the far right.

Fitter to see Him, I may be

Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance — Grace — to Me —
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year — A trait bestow

To make Me fairest of the Earth —
The Waiting — then — will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen — then —

Time to anticipate His Gaze —
It's first — Delight — and then — Surprise —
The turning o'er and o'er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace —

He left behind One Day — So less
He seek Conviction, That — be This —

I only must not grow so new
That He'll mistake — and ask for me
Of me — when first unto the Door
I go — to Elsewhere go no more —

I only must not change so fair
He'll sigh — "The Other — She — is Where?"
The Love, tho', will array me right
I shall be perfect — in His sight —

If He perceive the other Truth —
Upon an Excellenter Youth —

How sweet I shall not lack in Vain —
But gain — thro' loss — Through Grief — obtain —
The Beauty that reward Him best —
The Beauty of Demand — at Rest —


     -Fr834, J968, Fascicle 40, 1864


In David Preest’s notes for this poem, we read: “George Whicher suggests that these difficult stanzas may be just the first draft of a poem never completed.” It’s not surprising to me that someone might think this, since men (and women) have questioned Dickinson’s style all along, but for Preest to perpetuate this offence is surprising. The poem is careful in its meter and rhyme, and not only that, but she copied the poem into a fascicle, a sure sign it was finished. If something at first seems amiss in a Dickinson poem, it is always best to give her the benefit of the doubt. You probably just missed her. In this case, I don't think George Whicher could be more mistaken.

Ironically, though, this poem is, in part, about being unfinished, or, at least, not quite finished. 

Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance — Grace — to Me —

Who is Him? This question is a fraught one in Dickinson’s oeuvre. It could be a beloved. It could be Christ. It could be both. I take it, ultimately, as the consummation of Love that meets us on the other side of the veil. Dickinson has many poems that seem to be leading up to this moment when she shall see her “King.” But because Dickinson so often conflates her love poems with her spiritual poems, it is hard to say. At any rate, in these first lines she is saying something like, “I’m more fit to see the Beloved because of the long hindrance. The hindrance was Grace because it allowed me to become ready." The idea of a hindrance being a Grace is worth deep meditation. It gets a the core of Dickinson’s poetics. 

Another question: what is the hindrance? Is it life itself? Or is the hindrance self-imposed? Something to ponder. Did Dickinson choose her difficult life, or did it choose her?

With Summers, and with Winters, grow,

In both the joys of summer and the pains of winter we grow fitter for our connection to the divine. It’s all “grist for the mill.” The process is necessary. And eventually, if you trust the process deeply enough,

Some passing Year — A trait bestow
To make Me fairest of the Earth —

Some year ( “passing”!) the self will become “fairest of the Earth.” Quite a goal, fairest of the earth. The waiting is hard, but it is the prerequisite for true beauty, which can only come with age and dedication.

Again, it is worth remembering that it is the “hindrance” which bestows the “trait” of “fairest.” A lot hinges on the meaning of “hindrance” here.

The Waiting — then — will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen — then —

I hear a deep sigh in these lines. The poet, after all, is mid-process. She has faith it will all be worth it, but for now she is cursing (blaming) that she’s been chosen to take on the burdens of life. (And there is the further idea here of being “chosen” for some specific purpose, like being a poet.) If she does get there, then she will admit “with half a pain” that it was worth it, in other words, still a bit begrudgingly.

That’s funny and sad all at once, and richly Emily.

And how about the funny surprise in the next stanza?

Time to anticipate His Gaze —
It's first — Delight — and then — Surprise —
The turning o'er and o'er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace —

You need the hindrance of time to anticipate the Gaze of the beloved. The anticipation itself is important; the desire, the longing, the felt absence. Then when the beloved finally Gazes at you, He will be delighted to see that your ability to be patient and diligent has made you worthy of Him. Note that “He” wasn’t expecting you to succeed. That’s why it is a surprise. It’s so funny to think of Emily anticipating God’s utter surprise that she’s worthy of Him, and Him turning her face back and forth, sizing her up to make sure that the Grace is really there.

(There is another possible way to read this stanza, which carries further surprise. If “my face”...”be the Grace.” Then it is as if the eyes of the poet have become synonymous with His. Grace is staring at Grace.)

For Evidence it be the Grace —

He left behind One Day — So less
He seek Conviction, That — be This —

That idea that the Beloved “left” the poet “behind One Day” is intriguing. I suppose one could have the feeling that God left us behind, abandoned us, when we were born. But it's wonky. It’s as if the poet was abandoned and then had to work on herself to get back in God’s good graces. But it was “Grace/ He left behind” in the first place and why would God leave Grace behind? Maybe it just means that when you are born you have Grace, and it is surprising if you can keep it. He is seeking "Conviction, That — be This —”, that the innocent self is born again.

(There is another possibility here though, that the “He” is the reverend Charles Wadsworth. There are those that theorize that Dickinson made a pact with with the married Wadsworth that she would re-unite with him in heaven. I come back to this idea -which is not one I’m particularly fond of, but is one I have to contend with- because in Matty Dickinson’s recollections of her Aunt Emily she makes it clear that Dickinson was in love with Wadsworth, whom she met when traveling. Matty says that she heard this from her mother and father, as well as Emily’s sister, so it is likely true. In this reading of the poem being "left behind" has a different sense. The idea of being left and then spending a life making the self fit for the one who left has a tragic quality to it and is the opposite, to me, of the unconditional love of God. Or maybe it isn't tragic. Maybe it is a key ingredient of the kind of grit Dickinson needed to become a great poet?)

I only must not grow so new
That He'll mistake — and ask for me
Of me — when first unto the Door
I go — to Elsewhere go no more —

The idea of growing “new” turns on its head the idea of growing old. It carries that sense of becoming new like an innocent child. But here it is odd that you could become so new that God would no longer recognize you. It's as if God (or Wadsworth!) loves you not just for your innocence, but also because of your “experience.” If you become too new, do you lose your self?

“And ask for me/ Of me” Imagine God asking you when you get to heaven, “Where are you? Have you seen you anywhere?”

to Elsewhere go no more —

Death, or the afterlife, is the last stop. But also, there is the idea that there is nowhere else the poet wants to .
be.

I only must not change so fair
He'll sigh — "The Other — She — is Where?"
The Love, tho', will array me right
I shall be perfect — in His sight —

The poet wants to become worthy, but not so perfect she is unrecognizable. But, in the end, she trusts that "The Love, tho', will array me right." She doesn’t have to be perfectly innocent. She trusts that God will see her intentions and she will be perfect in His sight. We come back to a sense of forgiveness, an unconditional love. "The Love."

If He perceive the other Truth —
Upon an Excellenter Youth —

What “other Truth” is Dickinson speaking of here? The Truth of "Excellenter Youth," of who we essentially are, who we were as pure being before becoming tainted by the world. “Excellenter youth” is, again, a turn-around, like “grow new.” We don't become excellent, we become less excellent. It is a child-like state we want to return to. Dickinson did seem to achieve this. In Matty Dickinson’s book, “Face to Face,” which I couldn’t recommend highly enough, we see how much children loved Emily, and how much she colluded with them in pranks and secrets. 

How sweet I shall not lack in Vain —
But gain — thro' loss — Through Grief — obtain —
The Beauty that reward Him best —
The Beauty of Demand — at Rest —

There was some (purposeful) turbulence along the way, but Dickinson really lands this poem. This last stanza would work even without the rest of the poem. There is Beauty in loss, and in grief, the kind of Beauty that carries the truth of the divine. Death is sweet because for those, like Dickinson, who have demanded so much of themselves, there are not only the rewards of sacrifice, but also of rest.


       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


P.S. This poem has a unique structure. First, it is in rhyming couplets, with mostly exact rhyme, which is fairly rare for Dickinson. It’s as if she is working to “rhyme,” both figuratively and literally here. The poem also has the odd quality of being in quatrains except for two couplets that are on their own, that have lost each other, as if, again, the form isn’t completely cohering yet, but almost! Almost finished.

The first page of Matty's memoir, Face to Face. 

Pain — expands the Time —

Pain — expands the Time —
Ages coil within
The minute Circumference
Of a single Brain —

Pain contracts — the Time —
Occupied with Shot
Gamuts of Eternities
Are as they were not —


   -Fr833, J967, Fascicle 40, 1864


The core of this poem is the seeming paradox that it presents.

On one hand, pain makes the moment seem to last forever. We’ve all experienced this. I’ll never forget sitting in a hospital waiting room with a kidney stone. Every minute waiting seemed to last hours.

On the other hand, the contraction of time is about how pain puts you so absolutely in the moment that the rest of time, the “Gamuts of Eternities,” becomes irrelevant. When I was feeling that kidney stone, there was nothing else but the moment.

It's a double whammy. The pain is so intense that it's all consuming and, moreover, feels as if it will never end. 

Dickinson was a philosophical poet and pain was often her subject. It makes sense that pain would be a starting point for thinking about existence, seeing as to how it is undeniably felt, and can take over the self. There are several Dickinson poems which are about pain. (See the notes below for a small sample). It was an important subject for Emily Dickinson, as it is, I suspect, for all of us.

Though this poem is about pain, it is still a pleasure to read. The image and sounds are fantastic. “Ages coil within/ The minute Circumference/ Of a single Brain.” One gets the rather fantastic image of pain causing masses of time to coil themselves up inside a tiny round brain. A brain has the appearance of being coiled, too, which adds to the weirdness of the image, as if the brain were made up of coils of endless pain.

Dickinson wrote to T.W. Higginson, “My business is circumference.” She also wrote, “The brain is wider than the sky.” You can see both of these ideas echoed here. The minuscule brain’s circumference has expanded, through pain, to encompass the ages.

There is a pun on “minute” here too, perhaps. The ages are felt in “minute,” meaning both spatially and temporally small.

In the second stanza we see something subtle happen in the placement of the dash.

Pain — expands the Time —
...
Pain contracts — the Time —

The phrase "expands the Time" appears to contract into just “the Time.”

In the first stanza the reigning letter is "n," which has an expansive quality that carries the sound of moaning in pain: nnnnnnn. But in the second stanza we are presented with a scattershot of “t”s, which enacts a feeling of curtness, a tautening.

Pain contracts — the Time —
Occupied with Shot
Gamuts of Eternities
Are as they were not —

Gamuts of Eternities is very Dickinson. There can only be one eternity, right? But here there are Gamuts. Likewise, in a different poem, Dickinson uses the word “infiniter,” as if you could get more infinite than infinite. In another she writes “finallest,” as if you could get more final than final. Here we have not just a whole gamut of eternities, but gamuts. It’s an excess of infinite excesses.

Gamut, as Dickinson would have likely known, was originally a musical term for all the notes on a scale. So here we are presented with the idea of scales upon scales, as if eternities were notes in the music of the spheres.

The word “Shot” is a surprising one. “Occupied with Shot.” “Shot” is a compressed way of saying “the shot that killed me.” “Shot” is a single explosive word that contains multiple meanings. It brings to mind the suddenness and violence of gunfire. It suggests pain can strike in an instant, reducing vast swaths of time to a split-second trauma. There is the sense here of a shot piercing the body, cutting deeply into consciousness.

If we return to the musical idea of the gamut, a shot might be a single note in the broader symphony of time, a percussive sound that disrupts the flow.

A “shot” can also be a dose, a concentrated delivery, like a shot of whiskey or medicine. Pain, in this way, is like a compressed eternity injected into one moment, a “shot” of infinite feeling in finite time. The word cracks open the poem.

This poem predicts our post-modern sense of relativity. (Another writer who did this brilliantly is Ambrose Bierce in the amazing short story from 1890, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.”) It undermines our trust in “objective” time. Dickinson shows that our inner lives defy the idea of regular measurable time. Pain bends time to its own will, distorting the normal order of things.

So what is Dickinson trying to get across to the reader with this paradox then? It positions pain not as meaningless agony, but as an existential force, something sublime. Pain is a window into the moment, and simultaneously into the infinite. It’s not seen as a weakness, but as a profound capacity of the human soul.

By recognizing how enormous and pointed our private suffering can be, Dickinson is asking us to pay attention to the unseen pains of others, and to their own, too.


     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Bullet piercing an apple. Harold Edgerton. 1964

Notes:

Here are some more thoughts on pain from Emily Dickinson:

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’?

***

There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows substance up—
Then covers the Abyss with Trance—
So Memory can step
Around—across—upon it—
As one within a Swoon—
Goes safely—where an open eye—
Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.

***

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

***

To learn the Transport by the Pain
As Blind Men learn the sun!

***

The hallowing of Pain
Like hallowing of Heaven,
Obtains at a corporeal cost—
The Summit is not given

To Him who strives severe
At middle of the Hill—
But He who has achieved the Top—
All—is the price of All—

'Tis Sunrise — Little Maid — Hast Thou

'Tis Sunrise — Little Maid — Hast Thou
No Station in the Day?
'Twas not thy wont, to hinder so —
Retrieve thine industry —

'Tis Noon — My little Maid —
Alas — and art thou sleeping yet?
The Lily — waiting to be Wed —
The Bee — Hast thou forgot?

My little Maid — 'Tis Night — Alas
That Night should be to thee
Instead of Morning — Had'st thou broached
Thy little Plan to Die —
Dissuade thee, if I could not, Sweet,
I might have aided — thee —


     -Fr832, J908, fascicle 40, 1864


This poem begins in morning, with the speaker wondering why the “Little Maid” hasn’t risen. She was never one to sleep in. She had a “station in the day,” something to do. But now she’s still. 

By noon, the poet is more worried. “Alas — and art thou sleeping yet?” We get the feeling this “sleep” is deeper than just a nap. The world continues without her. The lily is waiting “to be Wed,” and the bee is looking for her. These are metaphors for the promise of love. The world is going on without the “Little Maid,” but she hasn’t taken her place in it. 

Then we reach the last stanza, and it’s night. “Alas / That Night should be to thee / Instead of Morning.” This isn’t sleep. The “Little Maid” is gone, maybe dead, and worse, by her own hand. The poet wonders, if she had spoken of her “little Plan to Die,” maybe she could have been talked out of it? Or, if not, at least she wouldn’t have been alone. (I wonder what else Dickinson might have meant by “aiding” the “little maid” with her “little plan” to die?)

The repetition of the word “little” in this poem, used four times, stands out. Calling her "Little" signifies that the maid is young and vulnerable. Repeating the adjective in the last stanza, “Thy little Plan to Die,” gives us a sense of tragic irony. Death is not little. But to the Maid, perhaps it seemed like it, just a small escape. Dickinson’s use of "little" carries a sense of a stunned sadness.

The word also gives the poem the tone of a nursery rhyme, which makes it even more haunting. It sounds at first like something you'd say to a child reluctant to get up, but then becomes something more terrible when we realize the girl is dead, and even more so when we find out it was planned. 

By repeating "little," the poem keeps circling back to her lack of agency. The girl is little against the big world. 

The form of the poem is worth a close look. It is is divided into three stanzas, each corresponding to a different time of day; sunrise’s hopeful beginning, noon's missed opportunity, night's irreversible ending. This mirrors the arc of a life, from childhood, to a delay, then to death. The structure is the story.

Also notice how the stanzas begin to fracture as the poem progresses. By the third stanza the lines are choppier and the punctuation grows heavy with commas and dashes, mimicking the stumbling cadence of sorrow. There is a sense of observation giving way to collapse.

The repeated address “My little Maid” at the start of each stanza is repetitive, like a chant, but each time the tone behind the words shifts. First there is a mild correction, then concern and, finally, grief.

The poem says to the despondent reader, don't don't be afraid to talk to someone, especially if you have Emily Dickinson around. And don't forget the promise of the Lily and the Bee. 

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. The poem reminds me of Blake’s “Little Lamb, who made Thee,” with its repetition, and its use of “Thou.”  There is also an echo of "maid" there in the word "made." I’m convinced, by now, that Dickinson read and subsumed Blake. And like many of Blake's poems, this one is about innocence lost. 

2. There is another echo here, the nursery rhyme,

Little maid, little maid,
Whither goest thou?
Down in the meadow
To milk my cow.

It's as if Dickinson took the maid's imperative to "milk my cow," and all of its innuendo, and rebelled against it. That was no life for her. That helps makes sense of "I might have aided — thee —"

3. I've noticed that Dickinson has used the endearment "Sweet" a few times in the poems written in 1864. In at least one of these, the word "Sue" was replaced with "Sweet. This makes me wonder if this poem was possibly for Sue too, though I'm not sure what to make of that. 

 

Till Death—is narrow Loving—

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—


     -Fr831, J907, Fascicle 40, 1864


I showed this poem to the poet Jennifer Moxley and her response was “Ouch! Dickinson is gnarly.” Yes! Gnarly is a good word for her.

Let’s take this poem stanza by stanza.

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

Loving someone only until death (“Till death do us part”) is shallow. Even the smallest heart can manage that and will hold you (keep you going) until your time as a finite being runs out.

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

But He (possibly Christ) whose loss leaves you so completely desolate that your life becomes too empty to sustain itself, you start to imitate,

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—

Until you resemble Him perfectly and give up your own self, abandon the joys of life and the natural world, and in doing so, finally show what love truly is.

The “But” of the second stanza marks a sharp contrast between ordinary and extraordinary love. Loving until death is common, but there’s another kind of love that begins after death, and it’s so powerful that it unmakes you. That “But” is the turning hinge of the poem. It shifts from finiteness to something that begins where death ends.

Another aspect worth exploring is the idea that “He” is Christ. A couple points about this. “Destitution” caused by loss of Him mirrors what St. John of the Cross called "the dark night of the soul." The poet's life becomes “too abject for itself,” like the soul without divine purpose, or maybe like one who has become overwhelmed because of the horrors of the world. The words “perfect” and “imitation” are clues too. “Thenceforward imitate—/ Until—Resemblance perfect—” "Imitatio Christi" is the basic idea of becoming more like Christ, imitating His life and even death. “Delight of Nature—abdicate—” Giving up the pleasures of nature sounds a lot like Christian asceticism. Finally, ending with “Exhibit Love—somewhat—” points to the realization that after all the self-erasure and abandoned joy, the poet only somewhat exhibits love. That humility mirrors Christian teachings. No love can fully match Christ’s love.

But all that said, it’s still difficult to get underneath this poem. First of all, it’s ambiguous whether or not the He in this poem is a lover (not necessarily a man) or Christ. But even if it is about Christ, and I suspect it is, one wonders at how devastating the cost of “perfect love” can be. To abdicate the "Delights of Nature" is a tall order for a nature lover like Emily Dickinson.

Let’s turn our focus to that term in the first stanza, “privilege of finiteness.” At first I took this phrase as earnest, as in, it’s a privilege to be alive, to experience the finite. But upon further reflection, I’m not so sure. I think she is being ironic here. The privilege here seems to be your mortality, the fact that you only have to endure until death. You’re spared the burden of forever. So it’s a dark kind of privilege, a relief by limitation.

But true love begins where that privilege ends, when the beloved is gone and you aren’t allowed to stop. That’s what the second stanza leads to, love that transforms in grief, without the escape hatch of death. This irony draws a sharp contrast between an ordinary and easy finite love and a radical love which is all consuming, and therefore not a privilege, but a burden or a calling.

Finally, let’s take a closer look at that “somewhat” at the end of the poem. After all that self-erasure and imitation, what does the poet say she’s done?

Exhibit Love—somewhat—

That “somewhat” undercuts everything that came before. After describing an act of self-abandonment in love, the poet minimizes it. It’s as if she's saying, even after all this, I only barely approach real love. After the poet gives everything, herself, her joy, her identity, she hesitates. It feels like a sigh. Maybe I’ve shown love. A little.

It also leaves the poem open-ended. The “somewhat” leaves the reader in tension. Is Dickinson being humble, or expressing futility?

Mourning can completely overtake a person, not just emotionally, but existentially. The real exhibition of love isn’t found in loyalty during life, but in the transformation of the self after loss.

This poem offers no easy comfort, but it does offer witness. It tells us that our grief isn’t just pain, it’s transformation. It points to the way that grief consumes you until your whole self becomes a sort of love-offering in return. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff 

A gnarly pine reveals the heat of thousands of seasons