Least Bee that brew—

Least Bee that brew—
A Honey's Weight
Content Her smallest fraction help
The Amber Quantity—


    -Fr878, J676, fascicle 39, 1864


This poem carries a sweet missive to us, like a bee carrying nectar from the flower back to the hive. 

It's pretty easy to understand for an Emily Dickinson poem, as if written for a child. It tells us that even the smallest bee can still make a honey to add to the “Amber Quantity” of the hive’s honeycomb. Do what you can do and be content with that. It doesn't have to be the most. 

What exactly is a "Honey’s Weight"? Well, there is no such thing, of course. It’s whatever the bee can carry. It could be any weight, as long as it is honey-sweet. It just has to be sweet right? If it’s sweet, it’s enough! This small bit of sweetness helps the whole hive.

It gives a funny feeling in the mouth that first line,  that ee, ee, aa ew vowel sequence of “Least bee that brew,” And then there’s that double B sound, which is apropos in a poem about “bees.” In fact the whole poem is a little odd. There is no rhyme. And the meter is unique in being 2/2/4/3. 

Another funny thing about this poem is the latinate language in it, the mathematical schoolmarminess of “Weight” and “fraction” and “Quantity.” It feels a bit arch, as if the poem is aware of its own status as a piece of advice and is gently making fun of itself. Also though, Emily's best friend Sue, to whom she gave many of poems too, was a mathematician and so I think Emily is playing with this. 

This poem is simultaneously letting the reader off the hook, and holding her to task. It’s okay to be the “least” if you are adding honey for the hive. But at the same time, one should be making honey for the hive. A little will do fine, says the poet, but do do a little, won’t you?

This poem is a like a single honey comb. A hive filled to capacity with honey is commonly referred to by beekeepers as a "honey-bound" hive. We can think of Emily, with her nearly 2000 poems, as queen bee of a honey-bound hive.

     -/)dam DeGraff  

P.S. I love the phrase, "The Amber Quantity." It sounds like a sci-fi book from the 1970s.

The Loneliness One dare not sound—

The Loneliness One dare not sound—
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—

The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—
With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—

I fear me this—is Loneliness—
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—

 

    -Fr877, J777, fascicle 39, 1864

This poem contemplates true terror. When I read the first line “The Loneliness One dare not sound” I was reminded of all of those tales of prisoners going crazy in solitary confinement.

 An exploration of solitary confinement

The word “Sound” here is a verb which means to measure the distance of. One dare not sound the absolute distance of true loneliness. Sound also is a pun on vocalizing, sounding it out, or, in other words, putting it in a poem. But that is exactly what, in a way, Dickinson is daring to do here, sound out the terror of loneliness.

That “dare not” in the first line makes you think, dare not? Why not? Why would you dare not sound the depth of loneliness? In searching for the answer in your mind you remember the primal fear inside you and go, "Ohhhh!”

And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—

The poet would just as soon try to surmise (to guess, or, to understand) the true depths of loneliness as she would try to plumb the depths of the grave (death) to see just how large and all encompassing it actually is. Loneliness is overwhelmingly enormous, unfathomably large and deep, like death itself.

This is a truth most of us would rather not have to face. But Dickinson bravely does so. We hold our breath and go with her.

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—

The worst fear is to face our worst fear.

And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—

We feel it might kill us to look at what true isolation looks like.

The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—

So we skirt around it in a thousand myriad ways, rather than looking at the horror straight in the face. 

With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—

We can’t stand to look, to imagine what it would mean to be alone with our own consciousness suspended. “Suspended” has the feeling of being raised up above, to be studied, but also has the sense here of being “kicked out,” like being suspended from school.

Why is consciousness “under Lock?” Lock makes you think a crime has been committed, the crime of self-consciousness maybe? But I think it’s more likely just meant by Dickinson to point to a feature of existence. We can only be inside our own conscious minds. We can’t truly be seen by, or see into, others' minds. We are both locked in and locked out.

I fear me this—is Loneliness—

The horror is emphasized again. “I fear me this.” Then a dash. I fear that THIS is loneliness, being locked inside our own minds.

This poem gives us pause. We can imagine how lonely Dickinson must have been at times. Her friends were mostly far away, and Sue, perhaps her truest friend, her soulmate, was only a hundred yards away, but she was busy as a mother, wife and socialite, and their relationship was, at times, fraught. 

But it’s also complicated because Dickinson also loved her solitude. She often framed loneliness as a chosen, empowered sanctuary rather than isolation. Her niece, Martha ("Mattie") Dickinson Bianchi, recalled Emily mimicking locking her bedroom door and saying, "It's just a turn—and freedom, Matty!"

There’s a push/ pull between autonomy and connection, and you can feel that tension in this poem.

The end of the poem gives us a possible out from this dilemma, a choice.

The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—

The Maker of the soul. One might guess the Maker of the soul would be God, but the poem just previous to this one in fascicle 39 intimates that the Self is the maker of the self.

To be alive—and Will!
'Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—

So we have “Will” in the making of our soul, and therefore we have a choice: caverns OR corridors. Caverns are hidden away, but corridors connect us to other rooms, to other people.

Illuminate—or seal— is also a choice. Do we illuminate the cavern and the corridor that is leading to it, or do we conceal it? The choice is ours, but it's is a difficult one, because it is not always easy to be in relation to others. “Just a turn --- and freedom, Mattie!” But to truly confront loneliness is akin to confronting death. Better, in the end, to leave a light on.

You might say that that is precisely what this poem is doing, confronting us with the terror of darkness only to “illuminate" the corridors leading into, and out of, our own dark caverns.

      

         -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

 

To be alive—is Power—

To be alive—is Power—
Existence—in itself—
Without a further function—
Omnipotence—Enough—

To be alive—and Will!
'Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—
Such being Finitude!


      -Fr876,  J677, Fascicle 39, 1864


This is one of those poems that comprises an entire philosophy of life.

The first stanza makes a claim about pure existence. It is Power. One normally thinks of power as being hierarchical. You have power over something. But pure being is not power over anything. Or rather, it is power over nothing. The power resides in merely the hum of life. Feel the power in yourself.

Dickinson wrote in a letter to T.W. Higginson, "I find ecstasy in living - the mere sense of living is joy enough."

The Power here is inverse to the normal sense of dominating Power. It is the power of repose, of rest in the joy of living.

Omnipotence—Enough—

Mere existence is enough! You take a breath in and it feels good, because it is a release from breathing out, and vice versa. Marcel Proust writes, "...the act–as a rule not noticed–of drawing breath could be a perpetual delight."

This is not just Power, Emily says, but Omnipotence.

The great irony is that the desire for any power over someone or something else is the very thing that detracts from the true Power you can find in the calm poise of pure being.

The first stanza is, as it says, "Enough." The second stanza functions as a “but” clause. But wait, there’s more! But…

To be alive—and Will!
'Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—

Okay, now we’re grooving. The power of our will to make of ourselves into “what” we will ourselves to be is God-like.

Such being Finitude!

Our lives may be finite, but the possibilities of our lives are infinite.

So we have two powers to wonder over here, the Power of pure being, and inside of our allotted time, an infinitely variable Power of will. Double wow. 

But what I think may be the most revelatory aspect of this poem is that what we choose to do, the idea in the second stanza, rests on the “Enough” in the first stanza. The idea that WHAT we create may be grounded in our ability to accept our existence without any need for dominance. Our goodness can be found in that acceptance. 

If there were a book called "How Emily Dickinson can change your life" this poem would have to go in it. In the way the Power of "Will" of the second stanza rests on the Power of "Existence" of first, we have a solid foundation for virtue.

***

It's worth looking a little deeper into the strange syntax in this poem, and, in particular the way Dickinson uses the unit of the line.

The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—

Note that the line never lands. “Be what—” is grammatically incomplete. It leaves identity open. It forces the reader to “dwell in possibility." You feel in this line the self is unfinished. Identity is not predetermined. The act of “being” is ongoing. The syntax performs the idea of becoming.

And look at the syntax in this line,

Such being Finitude!

Instead of calmly saying “even though we are finite,” she bursts out in amazement. The fractured syntax mirrors the shock. How can something finite contain such open-ended power?

***

The argument in this poem serves as a rebuttal to the Calvinistic thinking that was dominant in Amherst in Emily’s time. Calvinism teaches God is absolutely sovereign. Human will is fallible (“not my will, but thy will be done."). Salvation depends entirely on God’s grace.

Dickinson takes the idea of God alone being omnipotent and relocates it in existence itself.

Existence—in itself—
Omnipotence—Enough—

She also elevates human will.

To be alive—and Will!
’Tis able as a God—

That’s pretty shocking in a Puritan context.

But I don’t see these thoughts as rebellious, necessarily. It’s more subtle than that. Dickinson internalizes divinity. She collapses the distance between Creator and creature.

***

Finally, there is Finitude. The last thing I take from this poem is the sense that we don’t have forever to do our “willing.” The exclamation point that ends this poem is one of astonishment, but also one of urgency. Our possibilities may be endless, but not our time. 

Such being Finitude!

Yes. Reading this poem through yet again, I see that these final lines are indeed pointing toward the urgency of choosing wisely.

The Maker—of Ourselves—be what (?)—
(considering) such being (is) Finitude!

WHAT are we going to BE considering that SUCH BEING is finite? 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. I liked many things about the TV series, Dickinson, but one thing that irked me was that it characterized Emily as being in love with Death. This poem, as well as many others, show us that she was in love with life. But I forgive the show, because Wiz Khalifa plays death, and I can imagine Dickinson digging Wiz Khalifa. Also the first time she meets him the Billie Eilish song "Bury a Friend" is playing, which is perfect.

 

The Color of a Queen, is this—

The Color of a Queen, is this—
The Color of a Sun
At setting—this and Amber—
Beryl—and this, at Noon—

And when at night—Auroran widths
Fling suddenly on men—
'Tis this—and Witchcraft—nature keeps
A Rank—for Iodine—


       -Fr875, J776, fascicle 39, 1864

Here is Emily Dickinson doing her slippery, jewel-box thing. This poem is so tightly engineered.

At a high level, the poem is trying to name an unnameable color. That color turns out to have the power and mystery of nature. It’s the color of royalty, the color of a sunset, of gemstones like amber and beryl, an aurora and iodine.

 

amber and beryl, like fire and ice

She’s circling around something constantly changing depending on the light. She keeps saying “this” like she’s pointing at it, but never actually says what “this” is.

The poem, for me, functions as a riddle which in turn functions as a kind of poetic kaleidoscope, the beauty of the words becoming the beauty of the images, like the “ber” of Amber blending into the “Ber” of Beryl. The words themselves have a gem-like flame to them. Amber and beryl turns fleeting light into a royal and lasting treasure, both in sound and image, a trove of words. Or listen to the way the slant rhyme works through so many vowel sounds in Queen/ Sun/ Noon/ Auroran/ men and iodine.

The poem is luminous all around, a dazzling display, an “Auroran width" flung suddenly on the reader in sound.

And when at night—Auroran widths
Fling suddenly on men—

In the last stanza things get downright spooky. Auroras are flung at us, and witchcraft is in the air.

’Tis this—and Witchcraft—nature keeps
A Rank—for Iodine—

The poem cycles through skyscapes, each holding its own “rank,” or a distinguished position, depending on the time of day.

There is the lushness of sunset, but there is also the bright clarity of noon. The color "noon" is blindingly bright and illuminating, and perhaps, in countering the witchcraft, clear and logical. Later in the evening there are the glimmering green curtains of Aurora. 

What to make of the iodine though? Iodine is known for creating a violet vapor. For me that would make it either the last bit of daylight as it blends into darkness or the crack of dawn when midnight blue begins to perk up. I think either are possible here, the first being more eerie, like witchcraft, but the latter being more scientifically alchemical like iodine. Either way the opposites of night and day get transmuted into one another. Both magic and rational science are evoked here in the interplay between witchcraft and iodine.

iodine

Iodine was well known during Dickinson’s time as a standard antiseptic used by American Civil War surgeons to treat battlefield wounds. So this may be at play here too, if we see iodine as representing morning light, a kind of healing of the night. (Iodine was used to prevent gangrene too, commonly known then as "mortification of the flesh." One can imagine the witchy green of the auroras in the blackened sky as the color of gangrene, and the iodine as a kind of cure.)

The auroras are flung down at us, we are overwhelmed by an unbearably enchanting and eerie beauty. It's  like a witch's spell. 

Tis (for) this—and Witchcraft—(that) nature keeps

A Rank—for Iodine—.  

Nature provides a cure for too much bewitching beauty, and that cure can be seen in the iodine dawn of a new day, the velvety violet light that wakes us up so we can go to work again in the hot noon sun. 

Bravo for this, the way Dickinson captures in sound and image the colors of the sky in their moods and  meanings.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. Those auroras flung down remind me of the the Emporer pelting the poet with rubies in Fr597. 

'Tis little I — could care for Pearls —
Who own the Ample sea —
Or Brooches — when the Emperor —
With Rubies — pelteth me —

If Blame be my side—forfeit Me—

If Blame be my side—forfeit Me—
But doom me not to forfeit Thee—
To forfeit Thee? The very name
Is sentence from Belief—and House—

         -Fr874, J775, Fascicle 39, 1864


First question: who is "Thee"? David Preest reads it as Christ, and says, "The word ‘Belief’ in line 4 suggests that Emily is pleading with Jesus." But I'm not so sure. Forfeit me, this poem says, but don't doom me forfeit you. This begs the question, does Christ forfeit us, or doom us to forfeit Him? In Christian theology, as I understand it, the answer would be no. God doesn't forfeit us. Rather we forfeit God. We make the choice.

Dickinson seemed to find so much of the divine in the earthly, and vice versa, that one can never be sure who she is talking about when she uses words like "Belief" and "Thee" and "House." But I think it makes more sense to see this poem as written to a beloved, and one close at hand too, one in the realm of "the House." It's fine if you blame me and don't love me, this poem says, but don't make me give you up by keeping yourself away from me. 

This all points to Susan Gilbert for me. She wasn't living in the house, but rather a hundred yards away in a house within sight of Emily's window. She lived there as the wife of Emily's brother Austin. For those of you who don't know, Emily had a very intimate relationship with Susan Gilbert before Austin did, one which went on, in some form or other, until Emily's death.

The Evergreens as seen from Emily's house.

Dickinson wrote in a letter to a family friend, “They say that ‘home is where the heart is.’ I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.”

The key for me though is in another poem written 13 years after this one, where that word "forfeit" pops up again. 

To own a Susan of my own
Is of itself a Bliss—
Whatever Realm I forfeit, Lord,
Continue me in this!

What is a reader to make of this poem? For me it points toward the idea that you can love someone without needing them to love you back. Is that desperate self-denial, or is it transcendence of the ego? I read it as the latter and here's why. An ego needs reassurance, but Dickinson isn't asking for the other to love her back here. All she asks is to be able to love. 

I believe that the poems that Dickinson kept for herself and transcribed into a fascicle were meant for future readers, and I think Dickinson was too smart, in her poems at least, to champion dysfunctional relationships. So I don't think she is telling us that it is okay to be pathetically clingy in a one-sided relationship, but rather is saying: don't shut yourself off from the divine to spite yourself. She is saying to Sue, essentially, that she doesn't need anything from her, except her presence. That is an example worth following. 

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. The perfect rhyme of the first couplet, "Me" and "Thee" is disrupted by the complete lack of rhyme in the second, "name" and "House," as if the "Me" and the "Thee" completely fell off the rails...

It is a lonesome Glee—

It is a lonesome Glee—
Yet sanctifies the Mind—
With fair association—
Afar upon the Wind

A Bird to overhear
Delight without a Cause—
Arrestless as invisible—
A matter of the Skies.


     -Fr873, J774, 1864, fascicle 39

The first stanza is relatively easy to follow, especially if you lay it out in prose:

The sound of a faraway bird, borne by the wind, has a lonesome glee to it, and this is a beautiful metaphor (“fair association”) for our own situation and sanctifies the mind.*

It is a lonesome Glee—
Yet sanctifies the Mind—
With fair association—
Afar upon the Wind

A Bird to overhear

In the next line we are presented with delight. Whether this delight belongs to the bird or the listener is ambiguous.

Delight without a Cause—

Why is the delight without a cause? Is it because the bird is singing only for itself?  And what is the reason for the bird to cause delight in the listener? It reminds me of the Rhodora that Emerson speaks of that grows where no one can see it. 

The Rhodora

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

This poem came out in a collected in 1847 and most assuredly Dickinson read it. Both of them ponder delight without a cause. Or, as Emerson puts it, "Then beauty is its own excuse for being."

But Dickinson’s version gives pause. The faraway song of the bird heard through the wind is seemingly unattainable, being overhead, far away, an invisible matter “of the skies.”

Arrestless as invisible—
A matter of the Skies.

“Arrestless” is both comforting and troubling. The beauty of nature’s song doesn't stop, it is arrestless, and transcends our life-time, but the word hints at our own restlessness, our inability to rest easily.

I am also reminded of Keats’ "Ode to a Nightingale” here too, a poem that Dickinson would have known well.

Here is the relevant stanza from that great poem:

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Emily's poem, too, has a forlorn sense of the impossible love, but it is looking, and listening, skyward, where the mind becomes sanctified, recognizing what it means to be grounded, but at the same time offering a way to ascend, through the beauty of the poem, into those same skies, a delight without cause.

And this brings us back to the first line, It is a lonesome Glee—

    -/)dam Wade DeGraff

Svetlana Melik-Nubarova, Birds, 2019

Note: That phrase "lonesome glee" reminds me of the phrase "anonymous delight" in Fr784. There's this idea that delight is anonymous and has an inherent loneliness to it which seems to run through Dickinson.

*It's almost a shame to lay the poem out in prose, helpful as it may be, because the way the poem unravels is soooo much richer. The first line, for instance, sits for a moment by itself. "It is a lonesome Glee." The "It" is mysterious. "Lonesome Glee" is "It" for a moment, is everything. The "Yet" beginning the second stanza tells us that lonesomeness is sanctifying. It's lonesome YET sanctifying. But the sanctifying of the second line also projects forward to qualify "A bird to overhear." This is a common move with Dickinson, the sliding modifier, a line which can be read both backwards and forwards in the poem. The third line can ALSO do this, with fair association applicable to being between "the Mind" and "lonesome glee," and, projecting forward, links "the Mind"  to being "Afar upon the Wind." It's dizzying stuff. But it's also thrillingly expansive. It's much richer than prose, but it demands patience.

Deprived of other Banquet,

Deprived of other Banquet,
I entertained Myself—
At first—a scant nutrition—
An insufficient Loaf—

But grown by slender addings
To so esteemed a size
'Tis sumptuous enough for me—
And almost to suffice

A Robin's famine able—
Red Pilgrim, He and I—
A Berry from our table
Reserve—for charity—


    -Fr872, J773, 1864, fascicle 39


Deprived of other Banquet
I entertained Myself—

Left bare, bereft, and yet the poet is still able to entertain herself nonetheless, and sumptuously so.

What does it mean to entertain yourself? I have one friend who will make himself gourmet dinners. Most people, including myself, are only spending the time to make a great meal if it is for someone else, but I have a lot of respect for the friend who does so for himself. 

 

I asked my HS students recently to write about what they would do if they knew they were only going to have an hour to live. Most of them said they would like to be surrounded by friends and family. But one student wrote that if she only had an hour left she would watch the sunset. And she wouldn’t take any pictures, she said, because she wanted it “to be only mine.” I thought of this poem... I entertained Myself—

Poetry is a kind of entertainment for Emily. Perhaps it wasn’t the feast of great love she once had, but through the poem, in our hands, Emily has made the best use of her great reserves of love. This poem, this entertainment, is a love letter.

At first—a scant nutrition—
An insufficient Loaf—

This self-entertaining, in lieu of a great feast, would be difficult at first.  When you no longer have enough food, the hunger, in the beginning, seems overwhelming, but eventually you get accustomed to making more of less.

But grown by slender addings
To so esteemed a size

If there was a banquet before, now you picture a few slender slices of bread. That’s all there is left. But these slender slices eventually add up, with careful cultivation, to plenty. “Slender” is doing extra work here because the word reminds us that the poet herself has grown slender for lack of sustenance. 

There is another way to take "slender addings" though. If poetry was the way Dickinson entertained herself, the soul-food that sustained her, then each slender adding is a page. Poem by poem, page by page Dickinson made a feast out of loss.

To so esteemed a size

Each slender poem that was added did amount, in the end, "to so esteemed a size," nearly 2000 astonishing poems.

'Tis sumptuous enough for me—

"Sumptuous" is a sumptuous word and it therefore helps make the poem more sumptuous.  

A great poet’s capacity for beauty is vast. Even scarcity can be made lush.

And almost to suffice

That “almost” is understated. There is no making up, perhaps, for lost love, no matter how exquisitely sumptuous the entertainment. Art does not fully replace what was lost. 

A Robin's famine able—
Red Pilgrim, He and I—
A Berry from our table
Reserve—for charity—

This stanza reminds me of all those other Dickinson poems about robins and crumbs. It’s a favorite subject of hers. If anyone with time on their hands wants a good project, please publish all of these robin poems together as a chapbook. Or better yet, make it a book that includes all of her bird poems, with a chapter on Robins. This would be a worthwhile labor of love. Thank you in advance.

By aligning herself with the "red pilgrim" robin, Dickinson frames deprivation as a spiritual journey rather than a failure. 

And what is shared? A berry, the sweetest portion of the fare.

This poem shows us why it is beautiful to be bare to the bone. It imagines life not as a banquet regained, but as a shared economy of care. This poem itself is like the berry. It's a berry good poem. It is small, concentrated and sweet. It sustains.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S.


That word "deprived" troubles me. It is deliberately vague, and therefore haunting. Was Dickinson deprived of Susan Gilbert? Of Charles Wadsworth, whom some, including her niece Mattie, believed she loved? Or was the deprivation something broader, a life constrained by gender, by family, by circumstance?

Some readers have speculated about darker possibilities within the Dickinson household, but these remain conjecture. What matters, finally, is not the precise cause of deprivation, but what Dickinson does with it. She transforms her loss into a poem with which to feed others.

Dickinson does not tell us what the banquet was. Love, vocation, marriage, health, God, recognition, bodily safety, simple happiness. That vagueness is not a deficiency, but rather the mechanism by which the poem works.

“Deprived of other Banquet” has a conspicuous absence at its center. The readers must fill it for themselves.

You could say that the poem’s generosity, then, comes from what it withholds. The less a poem insists, the more it gives. The more it names, the less room there is for anyone else to stand inside it.

Dickinson withholds the cause, but it's not because she's being coy. Rather, this is the discipline of care. A good poem wants to be used.

The hallowing of Pain

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—

    -Fr871, J772, 1864, fascicle 39



This poem seems pretty straight forward for Dickinson. “The summit is not given to him who strives severe at middle of the hill.” In other words, the price of getting to the top is giving it your all.

The hallowing of Pain
Like hallowing of Heaven,

The hallowing (the making sacred) of Pain is likened to the hallowing of Heaven. They are thus aligned. We are hallowed through pain, just as Heaven is. Both are obtained at corporeal cost.

This poem reads like a marathon runner's mantra. No pain, no gain.

If so, Dickinson is like a coach, and she’s cheering us up that hill. You got this. All it’s going to take is everything you’ve got! Let’s go!

But wait. Really? The severe striving in the middle of the hill isn’t severe enough? 

The Summit is not given
To Him who strives severe
At middle of the Hill—

He who strives severe at the middle of hill will not attain the top, so you must be severer still. Yeesh.

Calvinism, which was central to the belief system of most of New England in the 19th century, took great stock in the idea of suffering. Read this way the poem seems austerely Calvinistic, almost masochistic.

But was Emily really so severe?

The pleasure sneaks in though this poem. For instance, listen to what Dickinson does with the “ALL” sound in this poem. It starts with “The hALLowing of Pain, Like the hALLowing of Heaven." Then the "ALL" sound bends slightly into corporEAL and hILL, and middLE . Finally it ends emphatically with that double ALL. “ALL is the price of ALL.”

With that pleasure in mind I would propose a possible alternative reading to this poem.

In the opening lines, 

The hallowing of Pain
Like hallowing of Heaven,
Obtains at a corporeal cost—

we note it's not pain one is obtaining at a cost, but the hallowing of pain. In other words, you can read this line as saying that it is the act of making pain hallowed (holy, sacred) that comes at a cost.

What would that cost be? Pleasure right?

But isn't poetry a pleasure?

In this light, the last line, "All—is the price of All—," might have a different meaning. Severity is not all there is. It doesn't include virtues like mercy, tenderness and grace. The price of those things is an acceptance of all things. So all things must be (h)allowed, not just pain. That would be "Like hallowing of Heaven," which could be seen as the neglecting of those in hell.

Did Emily intend this second reading? Maybe, but maybe not. I think Emily did sometimes suffer from an austere Calvinistic streak (see Fr865, where she says pleasure should come with an austere trait), and I believe she had a competitive drive toward greatness too, to "achieve the top."

But on second thought, maybe this alternative reading is what Emily meant here? I've almost convinced myself of it. Or rather, it is the sound of the poem that convinces me. The lulling sound of all that allness. hALLowing hALLowing corporEAL, middLE, hILL, ALL, ALL. It sounds too lovely to be too severe don't you think?

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff