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’ve been putting off saying anything about this poem. Probably because I love it too much and don’t want to say anything to mar it. Not that I COULD mar it, but you know what I mean. However, today is my birthday, so I’m going to just go ahead and indulge myself.

If I’m really indulging myself, I’m imagining this poem in an Emily Dickinson collection for children illustrated by my daughters.

Can you imagine a better poem for a child than this one? It describes for you an ideal mother figure. 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 beautifully, so wonderfully, she has made it stick for all future generations to see. Or to use another metaphor, Dickinson gives all future mothers the perfect recipe for their little buns.

(Emily was purportedly a master baker. Check out her recipe for black cake.) 

Okay, future mothers, take a note from nature:

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

Be impatient of no child. (Have I ever met a mother who was impatient of no child? Hmm. Let me think. I have been blessed to have known a few with incredible patience, but also several with very little. Patience really is the chiefest virtue.)

This Mother Nature may be patient with all children, even the feeblest and most wayward, but we note that She still admonishes, mildly, when need be. Is that not the mother we all wish for?

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

Rampant squirrels are checked by Mother Nature, and so are impetuous birds. The traveler can hear this in the hills. What is it exactly that the traveler is hearing we may ask? In my imagination the sound of rampant squirrels and birds being admonished must be the sound of them being eaten, or nearly so. It would have to be quite a squawking racket for a passing traveler to hear it, wouldn't it? The rampant squirrel and impetuous birds are checked by bigger animals trying to eat them. This doesn’t seem like such a mild admonishment, but I think Emily is having fun here. Maybe it would be better to say, nature mildly admonishes squirrelkind or birdkind as entire populations are mildly admonished when they lose a few of its numbers. Never mind that 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, in our mutual imaginations, from the squeals and squawks of admonishment, to the beautiful conversations on a summer afternoon. Here you can hear, if you listen very closely, the hare sniffing a carrot, or, louder still, the birds calling their mates across the upper regions of the forests, the breeze playing in the branches. This is the assembly (the family) in Nature's household, a charming way to think of the forest floor.

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

What aisles is Emily talking about here? The aisles of trees, assuredly, but we also have, with this one word, entered the church. We've been in this church with Emily before. See F238 for one great example, and F21 for another. 

When the sun goes down, what do you hear among the aisles of trees?  You hear the “timid prayer” of the smallest cricket. Its wonderful to think of a cricket’s insistent chirp as a prayer. A simple line like this one can change the way you hear crickets forevermore. But what sound does the “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 with the idea of the timid prayer of the most unworthy flower. Humans are the silly creatures that see themselves as unworthy, not flowers. The subtle point ED 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.

(This is why it is great to write about ED’s poetry, because in writing about it, you focus your thinking, and in focusing your thinking, you grasp things with your mind’s fingers that you might not otherwise comprehend. Otherwise I probably would've missed this little joke.)

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 lamps, the moon and stars, is adorable. (And ancient. I remember the lines from Beowulf, “both sun and moon, victorious and triumphant,
the lamps of light for those living on land,”.)

I love the line, “as long away as will suffice.” Nature only goes as far as she needs to. But 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 she has turned on the nightlights, to comfort baby, and to give you a soft light in case you should need one 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 –

Oh my. Infinite Affection! 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 animals being eaten above.) But this is a poem directing us, in part, in how to live, so let’s just focus for now on how sweet nature can be, like, to begin with the sweetness in the nature of sleep. As Shakespeare put it,

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

And then look, as if infinite Affection wasn’t enough, we have even infiniter Care. That’s where my reasoning brain shuts off and I just have to wonder. It’s a kind of joke that anything could be infiniter than infinity, but it's also a kind of truth. Care IS infiniter. As Dickinson says in a later letter,

“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, for what would infinity mean without love and care? 

"With infinite affection and infiniter care." Let's just bask in that motherly ideal. Is it a true one? If Emily, who is one of the toughest skeptics I know of, says so, then there must be something to it.

I take the "golden finger on Her lip" to be the sun reflecting on the moon at night. It Wills silence everywhere. We MUST sleep. Just as we MUST die. A silent sleep may be seen as a metaphor for death, but this death, this willed silence, is one born of infinite affection and infiniter care. This is a stillness I can enter feeling the full brunt of the poet’s love in her reflection of nature.

Thank you for indulging me on my birthday.


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Super blue moon over a pond in Nevada MO, 

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

On a Columnar Self—

On a Columnar Self—
How ample to rely
In Tumult—or Extremity—
How good the Certainty

That Lever cannot pry—
And Wedge cannot divide
Conviction—That Granitic Base—
Though None be on our Side—

Suffice Us—for a Crowd—
Ourself—and Rectitude—
And that Assembly—not far off
From furthest Spirit—God—


   -F740, J789, Fascicle 36, 1863


This poem is, on the surface, a pretty simple metaphor  telling us that we can be sturdy like a column if we rely on the granite base of conviction, safe in a “tumult” or storm. No lever or wedge can shake our faith.

And the poem is, taken in this way, inspiring. In fact, as I was reading through it the first time my daughter came to me crying because her sister told her that nobody liked her. I read this poem to her and explained it, and I could see that it did help her. She seemed to become columnized.

But Dickinson weirds this poem in a few ways. First is the latinate bent of the language; columnar, tumult, extremity, granitic, suffice, rectitude, etc. I’m not sure what to make of this. Perhaps there is meant to be a link here between Roman columns, and the structural rigidity of the latin language.

In Christanne Miller’s notes on this poem she points out that it may be possibly related to Emerson’s essay, “Self-reliance.” And there does seem to be an echo here. First of all, “On a Columnar Self,” could almost function as the title of an essay. Then there is the echo of “Self” and “rely” in the first two lines. Finally, the last line of Emerson’s essay is “Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles,” which does have a similar meaning to the “Rectitude” that suffices in this poem.

There is though, perhaps, a counter-reading here, when one looks closely. “How good the Certainty” may be read with a sarcastic tone. This uncertainty in the poem is especially possible of a poet that tends to undermine “Certainty” at every step.

For a deep dive into the dissonance I'm talking about, I will quote extensively from a terrific essay on this poem I found online by Emily Cogan.

“The second and fourth line of the first stanza appear to undermine the idea of the columnar self and the action of relying on it. The use of “ample” suggests an easy utility; the easy option, when faced with tumult or extremity, is to rely on the ample columnar self. Similarly, “how good the Certainty” suggests that the feeling of self-reliance or getting through something on your own is a good one, perhaps even a selfish one once the whole stanza is taken together. The second stanza has a slight shift: the columnar self seems to be praised by what it can withstand; the lever and the wedge are mechanical images which the columnar self, by comparison something natural, stands against; the capitalisation of “That Granitic Base” adds a certain grandeur to this self; and, standing alone with conviction “though none be on our side” is an almost universally respected act.

These apparent oppositions are questioned by Dickinson even as she is creating them. As is often the case in her poetry, this effect is achieved through her punctuation. In the first stanza “- or Extremity -“ is isolated from the rest of the stanza by dashes making the desire to read it simply as an alternative term for tumult impossible. It could refer back to ample not only as an alternative term but as an alternative implication. If extremity and ample can be interchanged, the sense that relying on one’s columnar self is the easy option no longer stands. It is, rather, a last resort. The capitalisation of “Certainty”, notably the last word in the stanza, allows it, as both term and concept, to act as a bridge between the two stanzas. … It is not only her punctuation but, as the example of certainty suggests, the ways Dickinson structures and connects the poem that convolutes the notion of the columnar self. Like the stanza before it, the final line of the second stanza straddles both second and third stanza. The columnar self is suddenly plural “though none be on our side.”...The final stanza is littered with group terms— us, crowd, ourself, assembly — which reverts back to the earlier two stanzas, the two possible attitudes towards this notion of columnar self in order to further investigate them.”

Finally, we should look at the alternative Dickinson provides in the fascicle for the last two lines:

And that Companion—not far off
From furthest Good Man—God—

These are easier lines to understand than the ones Dickinson opts for; God as Companion, rather than Assembly, and the idea of the God being not far off from the furthest Good Man rather than the furthest spirit. “Faithful” is also added as an alternative for “furthest,” which is also easier to comprehend. After all, what does “furthest” mean? It seems to mean here, the one who has gone furthest toward God, the most “faithful,” but you may also read it as the one who is furthest away from God. It complicates the poem. You might say it takes the simple Emersonian idea of self-reliance, and archly, subtly, opposes it. Is the self-reliant the furthest toward God, or the furthest away?

I also like “Assembly” better than the alternative “Companion.” To think of God as a Companion isn’t as provocative as thinking of Him as an Assembly. For one thing, an Assembly must be assembled BY something. Is this word suggestion that we assemble God? For another thing, if God is an Assembly, then it is not singular like a column. The word Assembly for God points toward our reliance on each other. 

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Joy to have merited the Pain—

Joy to have merited the Pain—
To merit the Release—
Joy to have perished every step—
To Compass Paradise—

Pardon—to look upon thy face—
With these old fashioned Eyes—
Better than new—could be—for that—
Though bought in Paradise—

Because they looked on thee before—
And thou hast looked on them—
Prove Me—My Hazel Witnesses
The features are the same—

So fleet thou wert, when present—
So infinite—when gone—
An Orient’s Apparition—
Remanded of the Morn—

The Height I recollect—
‘Twas even with the Hills—
The Depth upon my Soul was notched—
As Floods—on Whites of Wheels—

To Haunt—till Time have dropped
His last Decade away,
And Haunting actualize—to last
At least—Eternity—


    -F739, J788, fascicle 36, 1863


Remember that old Tootsie Pop ad, “How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?" You might also ask, "How many times do you have to read it before you get to the center of Emily's poem?" More than a few times are usually necessary for this reader. I might understand a line here or there, in the first few readings, but it takes awhile to put the whole puzzle together.

For instance, what does the idea of meriting pain, which begins this poem, have to do with the transience of the beloved in the latter half of it? That seems to be the question of this poem. But then, once you think you are starting to get it, you see another piece of the puzzle, one that changes it slightly, and you sit with that piece for a while. Like, what does Dickinson mean by buying eyes in Paradise? Ah, "bought" must have to do with “meriting” pain, from the first line. But “bought” has a strange connotation to it that makes you question the idea of "merit." And thus, piece by piece, nuance by nuance, the unique shape of the poem slowly comes together.

You eventually come to a conclusion, of sorts, one that is, naturally, unique to your perspective. Here's my first attempt: there is pain in losing someone you love, but this pain will take you, if you move forward consciously and with great effort, toward a new joy. How? The poem doesn’t quite say. It just encourages the journey.

Let's look at the poem stanza by stanza:

Joy to have merited the Pain—
To merit the Release—
Joy to have perished every step—
To Compass Paradise—

There is a joy in having deserved our suffering, and then, eventually, in the relief that comes afterward. This begs the question of what exactly Dickinson means by suffering. It’s a big question, and nothing less than Joy hangs in the balance. But, whatever the suffering entails, there is a sense here of having achieved paradise after having endured the difficult challenges on the path.

Pardon—to look upon thy face—
With these old fashioned Eyes—
Better than new—could be—for that—
Though bought in Paradise—

Because they looked on thee before—
And thou hast looked on them—
Prove Me—My Hazel Witnesses
The features are the same—

The poet seeks forgiveness for asking to see the beloved’s face with her old tired eyes. She deems these old eyes as better than the new well-earned eyes she has achieved because they were the ones that first saw the beloved, and which the beloved looked back at. So you might say that not all is well in paradise. The new eyes aren’t quite the same as the old eyes, not quite as good. They lack the moment of mutuality between lovers.

Dickinson’s old eyes (we know that Dickinson’s eyes were hazel, so this poem is from HER hazel-eyed perspective) are what prove to her that her recollection of her beloved is true. He/she was real. In other words, her eyes before Paradise is what she actually prefers. It is those eyes which may recognize the features of the lover.

This part of the poem is hard to reckon. Is the poet merely looking at her beloved in her memory? Or is she imagining looking at him/her after she gets to heaven? Or does the poet feel she is already in Paradise in the present, a paradise which has been achieved through the suffering she feels upon the reflection of her loss? It’s especially confusing because these are her old eyes she is seeing her beloved with, not the new eyes which have been bought in paradise, but its the very pain of the loss of her old eyes that is essentially giving her new eyes in paradise.

So fleet thou wert, when present—
So infinite—when gone—
An Orient’s Apparition—
Remanded of the Morn— (remanded = sent back)

The time with the beloved was fleeting when he/she was present, but seems infinite once he/she is gone. This contrast is striking. Time goes very fast in the beloved’s presence, but very slooooow when they are gone.

“Orient’s apparition” I take to be a sunrise, which comes from the east, from the Orient. The sunrise is an apparition, unreal because the lover is missing, has been "remanded," or sent back. The lover the night before was “real," but this new "Paradise" is an illusion of sorts, an apparition. 

The Height I recollect—
‘Twas even with the Hills—
The Depth upon my Soul was notched—
As Floods—on Whites of Wheels—

The sunrise reminds the poet of her beloved, but so do the hills seen in the sunrise, as they are symbolic of the heights of the relationship. As to the depths of the relationship, you can see it marked upon the poet’s soul like the flood’s water line on the white wheels of a carriage. (I’m imagining mud on the white wheels too, but that might just be me muddying the poem.)

To Haunt—till Time have dropped
His last Decade away,
And Haunting actualize—to last
At least—Eternity—

This memory of the beloved will haunt the speaker until time itself has dropped its last decade. The haunting, like the pain, becomes actualized, and therefore lasts for eternity. This seems to be a terrible fate, a kind of eternal hell, and perhaps for the speaker it does seem that way, but when we return to the beginning of the poem we see that paradoxically there is Joy (repeated twice for emphasis) in this “actualized” haunting.

You might say that this Joy is extended into the poem itself, through its music, and its human sympathy. But really, it is only the first stanza that feels joyful. The next five seem to be more about that "Pardon." 

The poem does reflect a deep sense of enduring love, the transcendent nature of the beloved as eternal presence, but in the end it points toward the irony of the great pain of loss as a worthwhile cause for celebration of having had that love in the first place. Not only was it all worth it, but the pain itself takes you to a new paradise (and pair of eyes.)


    - /)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes


1. The word "recollected" in the first poem of this fascicle (the poem prior to this one, F738) is carried over into the second. In F738 this recollection seems to be more about the possible continuance of joy, the hope of love still being recollected in heaven, whereas in this poem it more about being on the other side, in Paradise, but recollecting the loss of the loved one with pain. It is as if Dickinson is imagining both sides of the equation.

2. The word "Eternity" is in both poems as well. This word pops up often in her poetry. See my reflection of the handwritten quality of this word here. 

Here is the a screenshot of the word as it appears in this poem, still with that t crossing that swoops down the ages of the word, still with that strange break in eternity between the r and the n:

 

3. I like the way David Preest sums up the last few lines of this poem. "Our love haunted my memory until my last Decade ended. And now that it has become actualised after all the haunting, it should last at least for Eternity."

4. I recently came across these lines from Keats, which echoes the final lines of this poem. 

"The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light30
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die."

Haunting us until they become a cheering light. 

 

No Other can reduce Our

No Other can reduce Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it be Nought –
A Period from hence –

But Contemplation for
Cotemporaneous Nought
Our Mutual Fame – that haply
Jehovah – recollect –

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

Invited from Itself
To the Creator’s House –
To tarry an Eternity –
His – shortest Consciousness –

  

    -F738, J981, Fascicle 36, 1863


This poem took awhile to come to terms with. (And perhaps I still haven't.) At first I took “mortal consequence” to mean “death,” as in, the consequence of being mortal is…death.

But eventually I started to think that “mortal consequence” might have more to do with the meaning of our life, the consequence, or importance, of it.

One crux of this poem for me is in the opposing, but complimentary, ideas in the first and third stanza here. In the first stanza you get:

No Other can reduce Our
Mortal Consequence (the importance of our lives)
Like the remembering it be Nought – (nothing)
A Period from hence – (say, 1000 years from now)

That is a dismal thought, but also liberating. Need we worry so much?

Now that we are reduced to NOTHING, the third parallel stanza gives us the flipside:

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence (the importance of our lives)
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

We may be nothing in the long run, but let us remember for now we exist. We exist! Existing is the exalted consequence of existing.

That is the wallop this poem packs for me. The reduction to absolute nothing followed by the exaltation in mere being is a rhetorical move with a singular power.

We’ve looked at the parallel structure of stanzas one and three. Let’s back up and look at that second stanza:

But Contemplation for
Cotemporaneous Nought
Our Mutual Fame – that haply (haply = perhaps)
Jehovah – recollect –

Okay, so we may be nothing, but we must note that we are nothing COTEMPORANEOUSLY. We are nothing together, in time (co-temporanously). This existence together IS our mutual fame. Not only do we exist, but we exist together in time. One can hardly help thinking here of the (ironically) famous Dickinson poem, (F260), “I’m Nobody! Who are you?/ Are you – Nobody – too?/ Then there’s a pair of us!”

Perhaps we are nothing, and there is nothing more to it than that, but perhaps (“haply”) Jehovah will recollect us. (To give it the proper Dickinsonian twist, perhaps we are the remembrance of God?)

This second stanza sets us up nicely for the exaltation of the third and fourth stanza.

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

Invited from Itself
To the Creator’s House –
To tarry an Eternity –
His – shortest Consciousness –

This is, more or less, how I read these two stanzas, as one long sentence:

Nothing else can exalt the importance of our lives like God’s (our) recollection of it, a period from now, when the soul has been invited, from itself, to tarry, in the house of creation, for an eternity, which is, after all, just a short while for God.

There are many other ways to read this poem, and Dickinson will, herself, change its meaning further, a few years after she wrote it down in this fascicle, and present it to Sue. She will remove the last two stanzas, the very part of the poem I like most. I love the parallel structure alive in this earlier version that takes us from nothing to exaltation. Perhaps she had lost some of that exultation in 1865?

For me the poignant paradox of nothing vs. existence, and how it is reflected in the temporal vs. eternal, is at the crux of this poem. And the heart of it would be the deepest realization of the "cotemporaneous Naught."


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff



notes:

1. My friend Brice Hobbs pointed out to me that Period in this poem is capitalized. That capitalization does strike me as being pointed. Dickinson uses capitalization to the greatest effect. A simple capitalization from her can carry an entire essay of meaning. This is a good example. Dickinson is talking about a period in the future. But she is also talking about THE period in time, so anticipated by so many, which would be Heaven (which is clear in a poem referencing Jehovah) or, merely, the Afterlife.

By capitalizing Period Dickinson may be drawing attention to the indeterminate quality of some "later" period. You don't know how long or short it is.

A period would traditionally have a beginning and an end. It is counterpoised here with "eternal," which is where the poem ends up. Although, remarkably, Eternity, at the end of this poem, is posed as the shortest PERIOD of God's consciousness. The irony in Dickinson is on another level.

There is also, perhaps, a play on the syntactical "period." This poem possesses no syntactical periods. In fact it uses the much less determinate dash to signal a break between lines. You might even say it doesn't have sentences. You can see a nod toward the infinite in the dash. It has an ongoingness a period just doesn't have. It is also less determinate in meaning. In fact, in this very poem, you see some quite slippery dash usage. Look at the dash in the poem after the word "exist." If you put a period there, you get a very different meaning to the poem. The following line becomes a variable line, which can point forward or backward into the poem.

Dickinson is, in both her form and content, unperioded. She is unsentenced. Unstoppable.

2. Brice also pointed out that the word "hence" could mean both future and consequence. I hadn't caught the "consequence" idea of hence, but it is a beautifully complexifying wrinkle. It deepens the argument when you see that "hence" in this poem even RHYMES with 'consequence," twice. A consequence is a conclusion. A period is also a conclusion. Therefore, we have a connection between Period and hence. Hence also means, therefore, "period." Hence also means "therefore." Period.

3. A note on the word "haply." Haply means "perhaps." The question of the existence of God and an afterlife is elicited by this word. This is a line of thought you can trace through all of Dickinson's poetry. I find her ever deepening questioning of "Eternity" to be endlessly entertaining and edifying. It may seem, upon first reading, that it is only if there is an afterlife ("haply") that we are exalted in God’s eternal memory. But I think there is a sense in this poem, nonetheless, that our mere existence, co-temporaneously, together in time, has an eternal divine quality outside of time, one that doesn't need an afterlife, or any sense of God as Other. Perhaps that is why she later took out those last two stanzas.

4. This is the first poem of the 36th fascicle. It is a powerhouse opener. I'm becoming more and more convinced that these fascicles were arranged with forethought by Dickinson. It makes sense, seeing that she arranged everything in her life very carefully, from her Herbarium when she was 9, to her affairs when she was 33.

 

I many times thought Peace had come

I many times thought Peace had come
When Peace was far away —
As Wrecked Men — deem they sight the Land —
At Centre of the Sea —

And struggle slacker — but to prove
As hopelessly as I —
How many the fictitious Shores —
Before the Harbor be —



     -F737, J739, Fascicle 35, 1863



When you are in dire straits there is nothing worse than a false hope. One false hope is bad enough, but how are you supposed to deal with one after another after another? The metaphor in this poem is apt. When you are struggling to keep your head above water, and have been disappointed by yet another false sighting of land, how do you keep from giving up and just going under?

I sat with this poem for a couple weeks as I was traveling. When I saw people struggling, (which you see everywhere if you are really looking,) I was reminded of it. It seemed to speak for these people. A poem like this is effective, in part, because it makes us feel less alone in our own struggles. Here is a woman who has been there, who understands what it is like to have one hope after another dashed. We bond through our pain, and here Dickinson gives us a poem much less complicated than her usual fare. The simplicity of it is important. It aids in the catharsis. It helps us relate.

But there is another way it is effective. It encourages us not to give up. There is the barest glint of hope in this poem. You see it in that surprising turn of phrase, “struggle slacker.” When a sailor thinks he sees land, he brightens with hope and therefore his struggle slackens. This is a mistake. The poem seems to be pushing us toward making every last effort, reminding us not to be misled by false hopes, not to slacken our struggle.

And then there is that word “fictitious,” which reminds us that the fictions we tell ourselves, the constant promises of romance we are confronted with daily, will only lead us away from the true goal.

This is the last poem of Fascicle 35. Fascicle 35 differed, it seems to me, from the fascicles that preceded it in its intent. While I don’t question the sincerity of the poems in this fascicle, they feel less insular. They seem to be made more with a general reader in mind. This poem is a good example. It says to the astute reader, "Don’t be a sucker like I was. Fight against the false promises of fiction." I don’t know what to do with the fact that Dickinson wasn’t actually sending these out to a general audience for publication. Perhaps she had faith they would eventually make it into the right hands. If so, then her faith has been rewarded. It's remarkable to think that we might well be the real harbor Dickinson was struggling so hard to reach. Poetry's victory over fiction!


-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. Franklin prints the original version of the last line, ‘Or any Harbor be.’ Johnson prints her marginal variant, ‘Before the Harbor be.’ There is a pretty dramatic difference between the two. The variant carries hope in it, since it implies a real harbor, whereas the original does not, as it continues the idea of the harbor being, like the shores, fictitious. Normally I stick with the original, and present the variant, but here I let my optimistic side take over, romantic sucker that I am. Of course, if you want to go the cynical route, you could read it as "How many the fictitious Shores — Before the Harbor be (fictitious also) —" That's really dark, which I also appreciate. But the point is that you can read it both ways, so with the variant there is more -possibility.

P.P.S. David Preest tells us that Dickinson “had occasion to use line 4 herself in the year after this poem, because in September 1864, towards the end of a miserable summer spent in Boston with her cousins having eye treatment, she begins a letter (L294) to Sue with ‘At Centre of the Sea’ as a kind of heading to the letter before saying, ‘It would be best to see you _ it would be good to see the Grass, and hear the Wind blow the wide way in the Orchard.’"

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

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

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

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

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


    - F736, J738, fascicle 35, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

a small wren astraddle

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

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

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

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

Are not those your Countrymen?

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

If you truly consent, I recite, now-

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

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

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

Today, makes Yesterday mean.

You see my posture is benighted.

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

Your Scholar"

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold

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

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

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

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

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

     -F735, J737, Fascicle 35, 1863

In this poem Dickinson pens a paean to the Moon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

No matter — now — Sweet —

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

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

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

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


    -F734, J704, Fascicle 35, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

 

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