The Sun kept setting—setting—still

The Sun kept setting—setting—still
No Hue of Afternoon—
Upon the Village I perceived
From House to House 'twas Noon—

The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—still
No Dew upon the Grass—
But only on my Forehead stopped—
And wandered in my Face—

My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing—still
My fingers were awake—
Yet why so little sound—Myself
Unto my Seeming—make?

How well I knew the Light before—
I could see it now—
'Tis Dying—I am doing—but
I'm not afraid to know—


     -F715, J692, fascicle 35, 1863


I find this poem both brave and uplifting. It’s transcendental in the truest sense of the word.

The poem is encapsulated in the first line, “The Sun kept setting—setting—still”. This is a poem about dying, and the setting of the sun foreshadows the dying of the self. The poem announces that the sun kept setting (past tense) but also that it is still setting (present tense). We might deduce from this that it always will set, that it will “still” continue after we die. But that “still” is doing double duty here. The sun sets until it stops, until it becomes still. The word “still” here is a contranym. It carries the quality of both continuance AND its opposite, ending.

You could say “still” carries another sense too, which is that of “calm.” When marked off by a dash, it seems to say to us, “Be still.” All three meanings that are instilled in the word “still” here will play out in this poem.

    The Sun kept setting—setting—still
    No Hue of Afternoon—
    Upon the Village I perceived
    From House to House 'twas Noon—

The first line enjambs into the second, “still/ No Hue of Afternoon.” You might say the sun, in its eternal recurrence, is always pitched at noon, even as the speaker is dying. If it stays noon, then there will be no “hue of afternoon,“ a phrase which brings the idea of the sunset into the poem. This metaphor, in a poem about dying, evokes old age. The latter part of our lives takes on a “hue,” and may eventually become as colorful as a sunset.

Dickinson’s sunsets are famous. Someone should really publish a book of all of her sunset poems next to famous paintings of sunsets. It would be instructive to read them all. One of the great things about studying Dickinson is that her metaphors take on enormous meaning over the course of her oeuvre, and sunsets are no exception.

The word “hue” also evokes its near homophone, “You,” especially when the poem is spoken or sung out loud as it is meant to be. In a continual noon there is no afternoon hue, but also, perhaps, no “You”, no Beloved. This idea is of a noon without “hue” or “You” is continued in the last line: “From house to house it is noon.” We note that it is still a house at noon. It is not yet a home.

Second stanza:

    The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—still
    No Dew upon the Grass—
    But only on my Forehead stopped—
    And wandered in my Face—

The first line of the second stanza echoes the first line of the first stanza in its rhythm and meaning, with a slight twist. The sun sets, but the dusk drops. The weight gets a little heavier here. The first line of the first stanza is a susurration of ess sounds. The first line of the second stanza alliterates too, but this time the D drops in. The dusk becomes percussive, as if there were drums in the distance.

Dew upon the grass, like the hue of the sunset, is something to be hoped for. This dew “stops” on the dying speaker, a sweat on the forehead born of the struggle of dying, and then finally the dew becomes tears. It wasn’t until I sang this poem that I got that the dew “wandering in my face” was meant to evoke tears wandering over the singular beauty of the dying speaker’s face. “And wandered in my face” is a strange phrase and I wonder if Dickinson isn’t playing off the idea of wandering the face of the earth. The poet’s face becomes the earth’s, and the tears are all those who are restlessly wandering.

The speaker is crying. Why? Physical pain? Emotional pain? Release? Joy? All of that seems to be happening at once here.

Third stanza:

    My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing still
    My fingers were awake—
    Yet why so little sound—Myself
    Unto my Seeming—make?

The Feet drowsing drowsing echoes the sun setting setting and the dusk dropping dropping. Feet is another powerful symbol that paces through the course of Dickinson’s poems. A foot is both literal feet in Dickinson AND a symbol for poetic meter. (A poetic foot is a unit of meter composed of two or more accented or unaccented syllables.) Anytime you see the word foot or feet in Dickinson, look out for a metaphor about poetic verse. (F372 is a great example of this.) Dickinson, in saying her feet kept drowsing, is talking about literal feet, but she also is speaking of her poetry becoming more and more difficult to write. If you concede that her feet are also her poetry, then the following lines make more sense; “Yet why so little sound—Myself/ Unto my Seeming—make?”

“Sound” here, if we are speaking of poetry, may refer to music, but also depth. This is what the poet is doing with her hands and her “feet”, writing poetry, and the sounding of the poetry is winding down. For Dickinson writing is the way the self is expressed.

If you think about these lines in a literal way though, it’s a little creepy that the fingers are still writing even as the feet are dying, but it’s vintage Dickinson to envision herself, and us, in such an immediate situation.

I think there must be a dozen ways to take the last line of this stanza. For every reader it will sound unto their seeming a bit differently. But the general gist is that the “seeming” of self is becoming less and less as we die.

This philosophical thinking of Dickinson is often difficult to fathom. Take that word “seeming” for instance. It strikes me as Shakespearean here, “...Myself/ Unto my Seeming—make.” Self is made of seeming. I’m reminded here of the Wallace Stevens’ line about death, “Let finale be the finale of seem.”

Stanza 4

This poem could end after stanza one and it would be great. Stanza two adds an emotional starkness and makes it even better. Stanza three brings philosophic introspection to the table. But it's the fourth stanza that really brings the poem home.

    How well I knew the Light before—
    I could see it now—
    'Tis Dying—I am doing—but
    I'm not afraid to know—

The repetitions in this poem make it uncommonly musical. It almost asks to be sung. So when you get to the first line of the 4th stanza, you expect the same repetition of words that is in the first line of the first three stanzas. But you don’t get it. Instead you get the echo delayed until the third line, and even then, it’s a half rhyme. 'Tis dying I am doing.” Setting setting > dropping dropping > drowsing drowsing >> dying doing.

Note that dying is not passive here. Dying is doing. You do death. And, if you are doing it well, you do it without fear, because you have transcended the personal. You KNEW the light. And you knew it WELL. But look at what Dickinson does in that second line. She combines the past tense and the present. What a move. It seems to make perfect sense as we read it, but it’s actually odd. She’s imagining herself from beyond death, but she’s imagining this while she’s still ALIVE. She can still see the light. The sun is still setting.

That last line, “I’m not afraid to know,” is loaded. She’s not afraid to know she is dying, but also, she’s not afraid to know the light. The “know” in the last line is following on the heels of the “knew” in “the light I knew before” in the first line of the stanza. She’s not afraid to know death is coming is the initial reading of the last line, but the deeper second insight here is in knowing the continual light of the present moment. To know the light is more than merely “seeing” it.

The last line is courageous and assertive. It’s one thing to be able to calmly say you aren’t afraid to know you are dying, but the power in this poem is that the true object of that knowing is in not being afraid to know the light.

That’s a lot of analysis. But I think this poem works on a subconscious level that precedes analysis. You read it with the innate knowing of a deeper Self that lies beyond analysis. It’s a poem I hope to have on my bedside to read, or have read to me, before I close my eyes for the last time.


  -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

sunset by Monet

"Dickinson had a habit of standing in rapt attention as if she were listening to something very faint and far off. We children often saw her at sunset, standing at the kitchen window, peering through a vista in the trees to the western sky, – her proud little head thrown back, but her eyes raised and one hand held characteristically before her.” -Barton Levi St. Armand