Behind Me – dips Eternity –

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

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

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

       -F742, J721, Fascicle 36, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Tis Kingdoms – afterward – they say –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

"Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray"  

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

Good Night—Which put the Candle out?

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

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

      -F322, J259, Fascicle 36

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

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

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

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

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

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

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

No Prisoner be—

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

     -F742, J720, Fascicle 36, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

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

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

Nature – the Gentlest Mother is,

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

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

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

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

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

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

       -F741, J790, Fascicle 36, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then bending from the Sky –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Super blue moon over a pond in Nevada MO, 

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

notes:

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

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

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.