You taught me Waiting with Myself—

You taught me Waiting with Myself—
Appointment strictly kept—
You taught me fortitude of Fate—
This—also—I have learnt—

An Altitude of Death, that could
No bitterer debar
Than Life—had done—before it—
Yet—there is a Science more—

The Heaven you know—to understand
That you be not ashamed
Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience
Upon the further Hand—

     -FR774, J740, Fascicle 37, 1863 

This is one of those Dickinson poems which, at first, underwhelmed me. Then I scratched a little deeper. And then a little deeper. And pretty soon I had a gusher on my hands.

What seems like a pretty straight forward poem about the virtues of patience and fortitude, turns out to be full of slant upon slant of meaning, wink upon wink of subtext. Let’s look at the first couplet.

You taught me Waiting with Myself—
Appointment strictly kept—

God, or some friend or lover, or perhaps life itself, teaches the poet to “Wait” with Herself. “Waiting with Myself—” I find these words inspiring. How hard is it to just wait with yourself? Are you like me, in that every moment of every day seems to be taken up with some way of avoiding the simple act of “Waiting with Myself”? This difficulty seems to me to be at the very core of our modern malaise.

Dickinson somehow manages it though. She says she keeps that appointment. 

Here you also have the first of several humorous turns in this poem. Usually you “wait” for an “appointment.” But one way to read those first two lines is that the appointment that is kept is the waiting, itself. That’s absurd, but also profound. An appointment implies a certain anxiety of accomplishment, but learning to wait is quite the opposite. It’s a bit like saying the journey is the destination.

There is also a wink in the diction here. It's a parody of formal bureaucratic business-speak, “appointment strictly kept.” Another way to read “Appointment” is as an appointment with death, or fate. If that’s the case, then the idea of strictly keeping that appointment is funny because, after all, it wouldn't be possible to not strictly keep that appointment.

You taught me fortitude of Fate—

“Fortitude of Fate” is, like “Waiting with Myself,” an inspiring phrase. That mouthful of fricatives is strong. ForTiTuDe of FaTe. What does it mean to learn fortitude of fate? You need fortitude to deal with your fate.

This—also—I have learnt—

There’s something slightly cheeky about this line too. She’s learned so much. She’s figured out the "fortitude of Fate" and gained some wisdom, yet she says it with a kind of calm finality. It’s almost like she’s speaking with the self-assurance of someone who’s just learned a secret and is saying, "Oh, I’ve got it all sorted now." It's a bit of a tongue-in-cheek way of presenting profound realization. There’s an understated humor in how it contrasts with the weight of what she's saying.

An Altitude of Death, that could
No bitterer debar
Than Life—had done—before it—

Wow. “An Altitude of Death.” What a way to think of death, as something we climb up towards, as a kind of achievement, albeit a vertiginous one. Death would appears to bar us from life, but NOT more bitterly than life has already barred us from life. Which is more bitter? Death, which bars us from life, or life itself keeping us from what we desire? This line has the dark sense of humor of Hamlet. Death seems to be higher than life only in the sense that it is not so bad. Yeesh.

Yet—there is a Science more—

I'd really like to know exactly what Dickinson means by science here. Is there a “method” to going beyond the bitterness of life, in transcending death? If so, what is it? Well, I suppose the first stanza has already laid out part of the science. You start with practicing waiting with your yourself. Then you learn fortitude by embracing life’s trials.

Then, moving onto the second stanza we get another part of the scientific equation. Accept death as natural, and even as the high point of life. Don’t be afraid of it, because the struggles of life can be more difficult than death itself.

There is more to this “science” in the third stanza, but let’s pause here for another joke I think Dickinson is making. To posit “science” against the mysteries of “fate” is ironic. There is a sense that Dickinson is, in a way, poking fun at how humans try to intellectualize or grasp these mysteries.

The Heaven you know—to understand
That you be not ashamed
Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience
Upon the further Hand—

There are many ways you could parse the grammar of this last stanza. I take it like this. 

The Heaven you know—to understand 

Note that Dickinson does not use a capital “y” for “you” in this stanza. I take this to mean Dickinson’s not speaking to God, now, but to a human. Herself, or maybe Sue. (I personally think this poem is part of a larger conversation with Sue.) I think this line has a bit of a wink in it. How can anyone, with any absolute understanding, “know” Heaven? The line, “The heaven you know to understand” (read: “the Heaven you think you understand”) is undercut further with with the follow-up line, “that you be not ashamed/ of Me.” What does shame have to do with Heaven? Do you really know and understand heaven as you think you do? 

“Me” (unlike “you") is capitalized. if you look at just those last two lines, you get “Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience/ Upon the further hand.” While you, who think you know heaven, are ashamed of me, I will be standing in the brightness of an audience with Christ. I picture Dickinson actually standing upon the hand of Christ. There is no shame. The audience is "bright." Dickinson makes a pun of “upon the other hand” and turns it into, “Upon the further hand.” It’s an amazing word substitution. Christ’s hand reaches out further. It doesn't shame. It welcomes. It reaches out.

“The Heaven you know—to understand / That you be not ashamed / Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience” has a cheeky confidence. Dickinson might be suggesting that, ultimately, understanding the divine is not about an overwhelming fear of judgment, but rather about coming to a place where we are at peace with ourselves in the face of something transcendent. There’s a subtle humor in the way she frames this—a comfort in the idea that we needn’t be ashamed, as if the idea of standing before Christ might actually be more about reconciliation and understanding than fear.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Leon Bonnat:  Roman Girl at Fountain

Conscious am I in my Chamber –

Conscious am I in my Chamber –
Of a shapeless friend –
He doth not attest by Posture –
Nor confirm – by Word –

Neither Place – need I present Him –
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company –

Presence – is His furthest license –
Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him – by Accent –
Forfeit Probity

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society –

Neither if He visit Other –
Do He dwell – or Nay – know I –
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality –

      – FR773, J679, fascicle 37, 1863

This poem marks the beginning of fascicle 37. I’ve come to view each fascicle as a discrete volume of poetry. Dickinson was very careful about her arrangement of everything, and I’m sure fascicles were no different. (See her childhood herbarium for an example of what I mean. The pages full of local flora are all beautifully arranged.) So when I start a new fascicle I find it as exciting as cracking a new book by my favorite author.

What a terrific start too. This fascicle begins with an exploration of consciousness itself, and consciousness’s instinctive sense of a loving Presence.

This is a poet zooming out, from her small chamber, to the largest of subjects, "Space's Vast Society." She begins,

Conscious am I in my Chamber –

This is the existential condition of mankind, no? We are timeless consciousness confined in the temporal chamber of our bodies.

What are we conscious of?

Of a shapeless friend –

It’s easy to skim past this simple referent, “friend,” but it says a lot. Perhaps it says everything. There is something friendly in the vastness. It is not just an endless void. There is “love” out there, even if that love is just in here.

I appreciate the adjective “shapeless," because the thing about this friendly Presence is that it is beyond a definite shape, which I take to also mean beyond definition. It’s not something that can be pinned down by man’s need to dissect or control it.

He doth not attest by Posture –

Since “He” has no shape, I assume there is no gender either ; ) We also note It has no “posture,” which I take to be a small jab at the “upright” posture of the pious and righteous, and of all posturing. It's funny that this is said in the biblical language of posturing, "doth not attest."

Nor confirm – by Word –

Also, it's interesting that this Presence is not speaking to us through “Word.” Most likely this is a sly reference to the Bible, which is commonly referred to as The Word of God. But it could refer to any words written by anybody. Nobody knows, even the poet, and the best she can do is intuit that this Presence is friendly.

Neither Place – need I present Him –
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company –

Neither in Word, nor in deed (posture) is the poet going to present (small p) this Presence (capital P). The best courtesy she will give to this Presence, and a more fitting one than Word or Deed, is to pass along her intuition of this friendliness. Her intuition is that this Presence is hospitable. It likes our company. We note the subtlety that the intuition itself is qualified as "hospitable." To see a friendly "Presence" in the universe is to be a friendly "Presence" in the universe. If our intuition is hospitable, then what we perceive is, in turn, hospitable. 

Presence – is His furthest license –

Mere Presence. That’s as far as this Presence can be presented by the poet.

Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him – by Accent –
Forfeit Probity

That’s an intriguing thought. To “forfeit probity” would mean to give up a sense of honesty, or decency, or righteous posture. This Presence has its own sense of Probity, as we have ours. I love the idea that our “accent,” the way we speak, our “Word” carries our own sense of personal Probity. In other words, we all have a different way of being honest and decent.

The way Dickinson puts this is so clever. We don’t have to Forfeit our own sense of Truth to someone else's definition, even for that of The Presence Itself. (I think Dickinson means something akin to God when she speaks of this Presence, but it would be loaded, and too definitive, I think, for her to use the word God.) And, even better, The Presence doesn’t have to Forfeit Its moral sense for us either. This is funny I think. It’s one thing to say that we need not give up our own sense of morality for someone else’s definition. But it's cheeky to say, essentially, that God need not give up His sense of morality for us.

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society –

Okay, so the poet intuits that the Presence is friendly, but she also presents it as endlessly interesting to get to know. To become tired (weary) of Him would be less likely than if a particle of the universe could become bored by all of the vast “Society” of Space. It's a big party!

The use of the word “quainter” here is great. Quaint means pleasingly old-fashioned, but can carry a bit of sarcasm too. So here it reads like this, “Oh, so you find the vast universe weary and monotonous? Oh, that’s quaint.” Dickinson is smiling at our complaints of being tired and bored. She’s saying, “Look here! The universe is vastly interesting and friendly.”

Neither if He visit Other –
Do He dwell – or Nay – know I –
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality –

Dickinson can’t speak for anyone else. This is her intuition only. Does He visit anyone else besides her? She can only speak for her own consciousness. Does He dwell in Her, or anywhere for that matter? She doesn’t know.

But her instinct is that this Presence is Immortal. Dickinson added an alternative word here for “Esteem” which is “Report.” This friendly Presence may or may not be Immortal, but the poet’s instinct reports It to be so, and even esteems It for being so.

Intuition tells the poet that there is a welcoming Presence, and her highly-honed instinct tells her it is both immensely vast (“Space’s Vast Society”) and Immortal.

That’s enough, yes?


              -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


              

Note: There is a variant of this poem that is addressed to Sue and signed "Emily." Sue was more traditionally religious in her beliefs than Emily and I think this poem, along with many many others by Dickinson, may be seen as part of an ongoing conversation the two women had about the subject of God over the 35 years they knew one another. 

Essential Oils―are wrung―

Essential Oils―are wrung―
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns―alone―
It is the gift of Screws―

The General Rose―decay―
But this―in Lady’s Drawer
Make Summer―When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary―

        -Fr772, J675, Fascicle 34, 1863

This is the last poem of Fascicle 34, and it's a beauty. The poem can, itself, be compared to the attar from the rose. The physical flower, Emily, has long gone, but the poetry she leaves behind contains her condensed essence.  It's also worth noting that, just as this attar from the rose lies in the lady's drawer when summer has ended, Dickinson's poems were found in her drawer after she died. The poet's "sun" and "Summer" may be gone, but the roseate fragrance of her poetry remains for us in our own figurative winters.

The "screw" here then would be all of the sacrifices and work Dickinson put into the practice of poetry. The very form of the poem may also be seen as the screw. It's the perfectly crafted and condensed form which help "keep" the profound thoughts alive for us. There are a whole host of Emily Dickinson poems which may be read as expressing her poetics, in which she is commenting on the art of writing poetry, and this one is a prime example.

As I was researching this poem I came across a commentary by Ira Fader. I recommend reading the whole thing. It was a nice surprise to get the end of the essay and see the shout out to the Prowling Bee. Here's a lengthy excerpt from Ira's terrific meditation on this poem: 

"Emily Dickinson’s poetry is like a bowl of walnuts. A walnut has a shell-like fortress, and over the centuries we’ve invented some rather ornate screws to crack the walls and give ourselves the gift of its delicious seed.

A vintage nutcracker is a good metaphor for what I need when I read Dickinson’s poetry. I love her poetry. All of it. But she is, as they say, a tough nut to crack, and I have to work hard at it. But I keep turning that screw. I’ll read the poem many times, look up words in the Emily Dickinson Lexicon, search online, and crack open Helen Vendler’s book on Dickinson and several others I own. Keep turning the screw.

And at some point the implacable walnut shell cracks open, and inside there is always — a pearl.

That’s a metaphor within a metaphor, but it is wrong. A Dickinson poem doesn’t simply yield up its fruit or its seed, much less its pearls. No, you crack open the walnut, and inside is another walnut.

When I read Walt Whitman, we jauntily walk side by side down the road within his multitudinous world of wonder. When I read Dickinson, I don’t know if I am inside her mind or if she is inside mine. But I am always in a mysterious, perplexing, deeply thought-provoking, sometimes scary but always beautiful place.

Essential Oils are wrung is one of the first Dickinson poems I read when I started reading poetry more studiously in the past ten years. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I suspected I liked it. I suspected but couldn’t be sure because reading poetry, particularly hers, takes some getting used to. A new reader has to retrain the mind to stop reading narratively, linearly, and logically. And quickly. Speed-reading is poetry’s natural enemy.

And then Dickinson adds layers of her own brand of difficulty with startling syntax, grammatical license, capitalizations, odd dashes, and elisions in language.

I was captivated nonetheless by Essential Oils. It was an early lesson in finding enjoyment despite uncertainty in reading.

I could see the poem had something to do with summer, roses, and death. It was time to bring out the nutcracker.

Essential oils, of course, are the extracted oils of plants. The oils’ organic compounds are what gives the plant its fragrance, and these oils have been used in perfumes, sachets, cosmetics, and soaps for thousands of years. The oil from many delicate flowers and plants — including the rose — is extracted by a process of steam distillation, which causes the aromatic compounds in the petals to vaporize. The vapor is then condensed into a liquid and voila! essential oil. The rose has affirmed itself a soul.

But Dickinson tells us in the first line that “essential oils are wrung,” not distilled. And in particular, the attar of the rose — that is, its essential oil — is not “expressed” merely by basking in “the Suns” of a fragrant summer. No, the rose’s perfume is “expressed” by “Screws.” Did a “gift” ever sound so painful?

Curious. In the Emily Dickinson Lexicon, the word “screw” is defined not only as the spiral fastener we all know but also as a “press; [an] apparatus for extracting the essence.” In Dickinson’s time, the two most common methods of extracting essential oil from plants were steam distillation and expression. The proper method for extracting essential oil from rose petals was steam distillation. Expression, on the other hand, was used to extract the oils of citrus peels because these were much tougher than rose petals and would yield their fragrant compounds by being pressed in what was called an “expression machine.”

But Dickinson said the rose’s oils were wrung, were expressed by screws. Was she misattributing the gift of rose perfume to the torturous screws of an expression machine rather than the gentler steam of a distillation machine?

I am entirely certain the answer is “no.” Dickinson knew exactly what she was saying.

In the second stanza, Dickinson gently reminds us that life is fleeting: “The General Rose — decay — .” First of all, what an interesting phrase: the General Rose. I love that. It’s something bigger than this particular rose, bigger than the rose bush, bigger than Roses. The General Rose is life itself, it seems to me, manifest in flowers and in ourselves. We do not stand apart from the “General Rose,” and we too will “decay,” just like “the Lady” who lies “in Ceaseless Rosemary” at the end of the poem. (In an earlier version of the poem, the lady’s resting place was less metaphorical and more grim: Dickinson said she lay “in spiceless Sepulchre.”)

Rosemary is a herb deeply rooted in history and tradition as a symbol of remembrance. Remembrance is how we keep our lost loved ones alive at least a little longer, just as the attar of the rose “make summer” after summer has gone.

Life in the mid-19th century was hard. Death was always nearby for Dickinson, and she engaged in a lifelong exploration of its presence and meaning both in her own life and universally, both spiritually and physically. What is the “essential oil” of a life lived in the shadow of Death? How hard is it to extract for use in our betterment? Or how hard for remembrance to be wrung from our short, tumultuous time on earth?

The General Rose decays, Dickinson tells us, “But this — in Lady’s Drawer / Make Summer…” What is “this” in the Lady’s Drawer? Surely it is a sachet, prolonging the essential life of the roses that have yielded the oils from their petals, wrung painfully by screws. The rose, now decayed, lives on in its fragrance, it “make[s] summer” after summer has passed, when summer is a memory and “the Lady lie in ceaseless Rosemary.”

But why did Dickinson wish to subject delicate rose petals to the metal violence of “Screws”? Couldn’t the poet’s dramatic point have been achieved with botanical fragrances released by summery steam through the process of distillation? Wouldn’t the distilled attar in Lady’s Drawer still “Make Summer”? (I pause to note the wonderful “slant rhyme” of “Rose” and “Screws,” slanted by both sound and substance.)

No, essential oil must be realized through a process more anguishing than the gentler process of steam distillation. We learn from our pain, we are deepened by grief, and our own essential oil is wrung from the experience of living. It is the gift of screws.

This is the pearl inside the uncracked walnut."

Thanks, Ira. 

         -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

Note: The ending of this poem has an odd cadence. It just sounds wrong ending with the dactylic "ROSEmary" as it does. It makes me wonder if Rosemary was once pronounced more like "Rose Marie." Or maybe Dickinson wanted the sound to die off, rather impotently, like it does, as if the the lady dying in the poem simply fades out. Dickinson was extremely exact with her metrical emphasis, so something like this makes you wonder.

We miss Her, not because We see—

We miss Her, not because We see—
The Absence of an Eye—
Except its Mind accompany
Abridge Society

As slightly as the Routes of Stars—
Ourselves—asleep below—
We know that their superior Eyes
Include Us—as they go—

 

           -Fr771, J993, fascicle 34, 1863

This poem is similar to Fr769, in that it "sees" seeing. In that poem the poet envisions the last vision. In this one, going a step further, beyond death, the poet sees the absence of being seen:

We miss Her, not because We see—
The Absence of an Eye—

But its not the absence of the the eye we miss, but the mind behind that eye, because the loss of Her mind is a loss to our society: 

 

Except its Mind accompany
Abridge Society

It’s not Her physical self (her Eye) that we'll miss so much as the playful liveliness of the response of Her mind, says the poet. 

Following from the idea that “the absence of Her mind abridges (lessens) society" we are given a comparison:

“As slightly as the Routes of Stars—” 

An alternative line Dickinson leaves us in the fascicle is “As scarcely as the Flights of Stars." I like the alternative because it gives us the sense of a rare shooting star lessening society by flying away, but the line Dickinson went with, "as slightly as the routes of stars" gives us more of a sense of a barely perceptible, but momentous movement. It's a whole different poem really, depending on which line you use. In this version, the "mind accompany" has now gone above, the loss of which is affecting the poet, and it is like the stars' slow and steady movement onward. But never fear, for those eyes, when we close ours, will take us with them:

Ourselves—asleep below—
We know that their superior Eyes
Include Us—as they go—

The poet is “asleep” below, her eyes, ironically, closed. The eye of the beloved has ascended, and can no longer be seen, and moreover, the mind behind that eye, sadly, will no longer affect society. But in the poet’s dreams, the mind of the dearly departed is still affecting her like the superior stars do. The eye of the beloved has become superior like the eyes of the stars. Both the stars, and the lover's mind that has joined them, take the sleeper “as they go.”

The stars, and the eyes of our lost loved ones, are enroute. They are superior now to our own eyes and are taking us with them, if we will but follow.

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

star trails

 

Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds

Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink—enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine—

To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel's trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—

      Fr770, J711, fascicle 34, 1863

The opening line of this poem reminds me of lines from Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale." 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

Maybe Keats’ own “Refreshing Mind” was one of those that Dickinson was thinking of when she wrote this poem, along with Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot and Shakespeare, to name a few of her favorites.

“Sealed Wine” I take to be a book, or perhaps, even, a poem. The form of a poem seals in its contents, just as a hard cover seals in the pages of a book.

“Through Desert or the Wilderness” is a compact phrase that is worth stopping and thinking about. Books by great authors help get us through the dry times of the proverbial desert. How? Because their Beauty quenches us. Great books also help us when we are confused and lost in The Wilderness. How? Because their Truth helps guide us. Here again I think of Keats,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

The second stanza of this strange poem gives us more to chew on:

To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel's trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—

The choice presented to us in miniature in that 5th line of the poem, between “To go elastic —Or as One,” is an instructive one. Great literature, like wine, gives us elasticity. It stretches you. In other words, it allows you to travel away from yourself, but also, simultaneously, makes you “One,” brings you into a sense of unison with the author, and, ultimately with the universe. 

When you read a great poem, you often have to really stretch. But, paradoxically, you also come closer to harmonic convergence with life. Literature, like wine, has a contranymic effect. You cleave apart at the same time that you cleave to. 

In this poem Dickinson mixes her metaphors to strange effect. A great book is like sealed wine, which then is carried through a desert by a camel. Here we can hardly help but imagine a camel which is able to carry wine in its hump instead of water. That seems like a stretch, a very elastic way to describe a great book, but it gets us closer to a kind of truth than before we took the journey. This poem, hermetically sealed, describes itself. 

Like any of Dickinson’s many paeans to other authors, this one can be turned back in on itself. “How powerful the Stimulus/ Of an Hermetic Mind—”  It's an uncanny effect. It’s as if Dickinson is describing herself to us in the third person. Hers was certainly a "stimulating" and “hermetic” mind. The word hermetic has a kind of double meaning. It means both “sealed tight” and “reclusive.” You get the sense in this poem that the poem itself, the “sealed wine,” represents the hermetic mind of the author.

Inside a hermetic mind is a poem about a book being like sealed wine in the hump of a camel, and inside of that book there is a poem, by a hermetic mind, about a book being like sealed wine in the hump of a camel, and so on, all the way down, and all the way up too, if we dare follow suit.    

I'm starting to feel a little tipsy, myself.

      -  /)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. I learned something while looking up the history of the word "Hermetic." Hermetic: of or relating to the mystical and alchemical writings or teachings arising in the first three centuries a.d. and attributed to Hermes Trismegistus. It means relating to or characterized by subjects that are mysterious and difficult to understand. A second meaning of the word though, airtight, comes from the belief that Hermes Trismegistus invented a magic seal to keep vessels airtight. So, if I'm getting this right, this Hermes guy invented a seal to keep vessels airtight, which just so happens to relate to the the first definition of Hermetic, mysterious knowledge, which characterizes his teaching? Hmm. By the way, the word Hermetic is not related to the word hermit, as I would have guessed. 

2. This poem pairs well with the first poem from this fascicle, Fr756, which is about the vital connection between the poet and a beloved author who has died. 

3. Drunkenness as a metaphor pops up to great effect often in Dickinson, the most famous example being F207, "I taste a liquor never brewed." 

These – saw Visions –

These – saw Visions –
Latch them softly –
These – held Dimples –
Smooth them slow –
This – addressed departing accents –
Quick – Sweet Mouth – to miss thee so –

This – we stroked –
Unnumbered – Satin –
These – we held among our own –
Fingers of the Slim Aurora –
Not so arrogant – this Noon –

These – adjust – that ran to meet Us –
Pearl – for stocking – Pearl for Shoe –
Paradise – the only Palace
Fit for Her reception – now –

      -Fr769, J758, Fascicle 34, 1863


What a vision the poet has laid here before us. Gothic – romantic – devastating.

The poet is describing the recent death of a woman, her lover judging by the clues. It's also possible she is talking about herself, asking her lover to close her eyes for her, in the future. 

These – saw Visions –
Latch them softly –

It’s possible that the poet is speaking of something that has already happened, the death of a friend, or lover, but I suspect that this is a future vision. I believe Dickinson is imagining the eventual death of a lover, or herself. One triumph of this poem is that you can read this poem either way. It might be the lover's eyes the poet is closing, or the poet's eyes the lover is closing.

If this is a vision of the future, then it is fitting that the first thing the vision envisions is "These (that) saw visions." 

Because there is no pronoun to begin the poem, it does appear, at first, that the poet is referring to her own eyes. You don’t know at first who “These” refers to. By omitting the pronoun the poet invites you to believe it is her own eyes she is referring to. This ambiguity is strengthened in the second stanza with the use of the pronoun “we.” This gives you the sense that it might be either lover laying the other to rest,  whichever of them happens to survive the other.

It turns out Dickinson was the one who died first, and, sure enough her childhood sweetheart Sue Gilbert was there, 36 years after they first met, to softly latch Emily’s eyes. 

Well, we can’t know for sure she did that. We only know she was there to ready the body for the grave, that is all. But I don’t really have much doubt that Sue did smooth over the dimples on Dickinson’s cheek, and maybe even with this poem in mind. See more about this in the notes below. 

The use of the word “latch” is great, especially if we apply the term to Dickinson’s own eyes. She spent much of her adult life staring out of her own bedroom window, which were her eyes out into the world. This vision was the inspiration for many of her Visions beyond physical sight. The windows to the soul are being latched here too.

These – held Dimples –
Smooth them slow –

Ah, the dimples, which imply a smile, which implies happiness. Dimples are like a ripple of a smile. To have these ripples of happiness smoothed out “slow” is heart rending.

Several poems in this fascicle employ a trochaic rhythm rather than an iambic one. I think Dickinson does this, in many cases, to give extra emotional emphasis to the poem from the get-go. An all cap “THESE!” is the sense you get from switching up the rhythm to make the syllabic beat come first. "On the one!" as they say in funk music. 

Also, look at the effect of taking the “ly” off of “slow.” You expect that "ly", rhythmically, so by taking that last beat off you get an extra beat on “slow.” It gives us a slow, but emphatic, SLOOOW. You don’t notice it with the mind, but if you say it out loud, you feel it with the heart.

This – addressed departing accents –
Quick – Sweet Mouth – to miss thee so.

A quick mouth. Well, Dickinson’s wit is very quick, as is abundantly evident in nearly every single poem, but so was Susan’s. She was well known as a sparkling conversationalist. She was called “the most graceful woman in Western Massachusetts” by Samuel Bowles, and entertained Emerson, Frances Hodgson Burnett (both nearly as great as Dickinson,) not to mention such luminaries as Harriet Beecher Stowe and Frederick Law Olmstead.

It's a strange turn of phrase, “This addressed departing accents.” Who is talking to whom here? Who is departing? Who is addressing? This mouth is addressing the departing accents of the surviving listeners? How could an accent address an accent? Who is speaking and who is listening? Who is dying and who is surviving?

Also, the idea of an accent to sum up a voice is lovely. We all have regional accents, but we also each have our own accents, inimitable as fingerprints. The more carefully you listen, the more you hear them.

This – we stroked –
Unnumbered – Satin –

Here the "we" comes into the poem for the first time. It is possible Dickinson is using the royal "we” here, but I think this use of the first person plural brings the idea that stroking was mutual. The pure sensual detail of two women stroking each other’s satin hair, unnumbered times, is enough to make anyone fall into a trance. I also think it's possible that Dickinson may be referring to satin skin, which gives an even deeper sensuality to the stroking in these lines.

The line “Unnumbered – Satin –” by itself is a fragment worthy of Sappho. It’s as if the texture of satin contained, in itself, a sense of the infinite, a sensuality beyond measure. 

There is also a kind of falling away in the broken syntax of the line: "This – we stroked," falling off into "unnumbered," as if the whole phrase could not even be uttered, falling finally, breathlessly, into just "satin." It is just exquisite.

Fingers of the Slim Aurora –
Not so arrogant – this Noon –

By Aurora, here, Dickinson, means the goddess of dawn. Fingers of Aurora, I believe, must be an allusion to Homer’s Odyssey, where we find the phrase “The rosy fingers of Dawn” mentioned several times.

It's as if she were saying, "My lover's fingers (or mine) which were once comparable to the mythic rosy fingers of dawn, are not so arrogant in the harsh realism revealed in the light of noon."

These – adjust – that ran to meet Us –
Pearl – for stocking – Pearl for Shoe –

The anaphoric repetition of "These" and "This" in this poem creates a terrific rhythm. These, These, This, This, These, These.

We have made it to the feet. Feet are so important in Dickinson's poetry. 

These feet, of the beloved, that once ran toward her beloved – we can imagine the two friends literally running toward one another in a field – must now be “adjusted.” That verb, "adjust," in contrast to running, is so ghastly and tender at once.

It's also worth pointing out that feet, in every Dickinson poem I've read so far, doubles as a symbol for poetic feet, and therefore for poetry itself. So to "adjust" feet may also be seen as metaphor for the metrical arrangement of the words in a poem. 

The pearl placed on the stocking and shoe elicits the very treasure of the sea itself, lovingly placed upon the body of the departed.

For me this recalls the Tempest,

“Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.”

One pearl, I believe, is meant to represent Emily, and one, Sue, but which one is the stocking and which is the shoe? Who fits into whom?

Paradise – the only Palace
Fit for Her reception – now –

Paradise. This word holds so much pathos. Is there a Paradise after death? What kind of paradise is it when your legs no longer run, your lips no longer kiss and you no longer smile? 

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The great actress Sarah Bernhardt in her deathbed. 

Not Sue, nor Emily, but she could have ably acted either's part.

Notes: 

1. This poem is very similar to two other poems in this fascicle. In Fr762, we get a similar scenario. The woman is asking her lover to be there to close her eyes with a kiss. Another is a slightly earlier poem, Fr759, in which Dickinson describes a funeral as if it were a wedding, and the departed as if she were a bride.

2. "Susan's enactment of simple ritual for profound utterance is perhaps best displayed in the simple flannel robe she designed and in which she dressed Emily for death, laying her out in a white casket, cypripedium and violets (symbolizing faithfulness) at her neck, two heliotropes (symbolizing devotion) in her hand." (St. Armand 74-75). This final act over Emily's body underscores "their shared life, their deep and complex intimacy" and that they both anticipated a "postmortem resurrection" of that intimacy. (Hart 255; Pollak 137).

The Mountains – grow unnoticed –

The Mountains – grow unnoticed –
Their Purple figures rise
Without attempt – Exhaustion –
Assistance – or Applause –

In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun – with just delight
Looks long – and last – and golden –
For fellowship – at night –

   -Fr768, J757,  fascicle 34, 1863

When you read “The Mountains – grow unnoticed –/ Their Purple Figures rise,” it is hard not to think of Dickinson herself, who grew into a literary mountain, though she was virtually unnoticed in her lifetime, and whose Purple (read: royal) Figure is still rising.

I doubt Dickinson was thinking of fame when she wrote this poem. I imagine that it was more of a reminder to herself, and perhaps to her reader, to be patient. The wonder though is that this reminder worked, which is clear in retrospect. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding.

This is a wisdom poem. Dickinson appears to be in line with Lao Tzu’s "Tao Te Ching." She says the mountain forms without attempting, exhaustion, assistance or applause. Lao Tzu says:

“He who raises himself on tiptoe cannot stand firm. He who walks with strides cannot travel far. He who brags about himself shall not receive credit.”

Dickinson is attempting to align herself, and her reader, with the Eternal Faces represented by the mountains.

The second stanza is beautiful,

In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun – with just delight
Looks long – and last – and golden –
For fellowship – at night –

In the mountains we have an image of something grand and eternal being looked at “long and last” by the "Sun," or by whatever might be meant metaphorically by Sun; Son of God? Inspiration? Glory? Then the two rest together at night, in fellowship. If, in poetic parlance, night equals death, then this is the kind of death Dickinson aspires to: a golden light setting on a purple mountain's majesty.

It’s a beautiful thought, and the poem serves as a paean to patience. It's a reminder that it doesn't matter if you are unnoticed, and don't worry about applause. The true relation you are seeking, the Sun on your Peaks, will be there if you just keep on keeping on. The paradox, the trick, is to keep on without attempting to do it. Like Yoda says, "There is no try, there is only do."

The best part is that when you are no longer "attempting," there is nothing to be exhausted over.  You can do your work restfully, with Dickinson as a prime example. As the great poet and painter Joe Brainard says, 

    

        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

One Blessing had I than the rest

One Blessing had I than the rest
So larger to my Eyes
That I stopped gauging – satisfied –
For this enchanted size –

It was the limit of my Dream –
The focus of my Prayer –
A perfect – paralyzing Bliss –
Contented as Despair –

I knew no more of Want – or Cold –
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul –
Supremest Earthly Sum –

The Heaven below the Heaven above
Obscured with ruddier Blue –
Life’s Latitudes leant over – full –
The Judgment perished – too –

Why Bliss so scantily disburse –
Why Paradise defer –
Why Floods be served to Us – in Bowls
I speculate no more –

        -Fr767, J756, fascicle 34, 1863


In the first stanza of this poem Emily Dickinson says she has had a blessing so enchantingly large that she stopped gauging. To gauge is to measure an amount.

This begs the question, if you stop gauging, will you thus find an enchantingly large blessing? Can you reverse engineer this poem?

Last night on the Golden Globes Demi Moore said, “You will know the value of your worth if you just put down the measuring stick.” This poem resonates with that idea. We see variations of it come up often in Dickinson’s poetry. “'Tis little I could care for pearls who own the ample sea” is one line that comes to mind.

But, in the second stanza, we begin to see a possible downside. The lack of limit may be itself limiting. Notice the change in diction with those words “limit," “paralyzing” and “Despair:”

It was the limit of my Dream –
The focus of my Prayer –
A perfect – paralyzing Bliss –
Contented as Despair –

To reach the very limit of your dream is terrific, but then, I suppose, you must admit a limit. The focus of prayer is limiting in its way too. To focus is to limit your vision. You are left with a perfect bliss, but there is something paralyzing about that perfection. That line “Contented as Despair” is amazing at summing up this paradox.

Bliss can be paralyzing when it’s too perfect, just as despair can be when it’s too deep. If a person is in a state of perfect fulfillment, there’s nothing left to pursue. This may lead to a sense of emptiness. Even bliss, in its extremity, might bring a sense of stagnation. In achieving the ultimate bliss, one feels as though they’ve lost the ability to act. That’s insightful. 

There’s a sense of completeness that, rather than being liberating, could feel suffocating. The contentment is so complete that it resembles despair in its totality. The bliss experienced is absolute and final, and in that sense, it is paralyzing, just like despair. It’s a fascinating way of exploring how extreme positive states can sometimes be as confining as negative ones.

I knew no more of Want – or Cold –
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul –
Supremest Earthly Sum –

This stanza has now swung back to the positive side of the equation. "Want" and "Cold" have become Phantasms. (“Fictions” is an alternative word that Dickinson provides here, which ties "Want" and "Cold" then to “Reality.”) 

We are in the world of Equations here, with those words, “Value” and “Sum.” I’m always reminded of Sue Gilbert, Emily’s sister-in-law, when Dickinson turns to mathematical terminology, as Sue was a mathematician. It’s possible this poem is about being in love. The idea of a Sum summons this idea. One and one makes two. You can see this idea of one and one making a sum of two played out in the poem Dickinson hand-wrote shortly before this one in fascicle 34, Fr765.

The Heaven below the Heaven above
Obscured with ruddier Blue –
Life’s Latitudes leant over – full –
The Judgment perished – too –

This phrase “Heaven below” also clues us in that we are probably talking about a relationship, as does the adjective “ruddier,” which evokes the blood-red color of a face. The idea of a Blue being ruddier is odd at first. But then you realize that a ruddier blue would be…purple, the color of royalty. An alternative word Dickinson provides in the fascicle for “ruddier” is “comelier” which also points toward the idea of a physical human beauty.

The word "latitudes" is taking us from the idea of math to that of geometry. Latitude lines are those stretching around the globe. With latitude lines "leant over" you get a sense of expansive space, the “full” of space,  latitude lines leaning over, all the way around the world. It’s a terrific image. 

Latitude can also mean “scope of freedom.” In the lack of judgement you have an expansion of freedom.

The “Judgment perished” takes us beyond good and evil. Again, the idea of measuring, or judging, is made obsolete by great feeling, Heaven’s Judgment, in particular, is rendered mute by this closer Heaven.

Why Bliss so scantily disburse –
Why Paradise defer –
Why Floods be served to Us – in Bowls
I speculate no more –

Speculation is the forming of a theory or conjecture without firm evidence. It’s a word that attempts to “measure” the future. This poem is looking back, and it understands that this great feeling of absolute fullness cannot be forever, and would even lead to a kind of limiting paralysis if it were. But it also revels in the bowlful of flood that has been served.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"Floods be served to Us – in Bowls"

note: In the fascicle Dickinson spells "gauging" as "guaging." Perhaps this was on purpose. She sometimes does get creative with spelling, but I would think that in this case it is was an error. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Perhaps not worrying about spelling is a very clever way of "not gauging." Dickinson is usually extremely careful about the smallest detail. An accidental misspelling is rare. 

No Bobolink – reverse His Singing

No Bobolink – reverse His Singing
When the only Tree
Ever He minded occupying
By the Farmer be –

Clove to the Root –
His Spacious Future –
Best Horizon – gone –
Brave Bobolink –
Whose Music be His
Only Anodyne –


     -Fr766, J755, Fascicle 34, 1863

The first line of this poem is funny. What would it mean to “reverse” your singing? By “reverse,” Dickinson means “will stop.” But why not just write “will stop” there? The word "reverse" leads you to imagine the bobolink song being sung backwards. So my first question is, why did she use the word “reverse?” My best guess is that it points toward the absurdity of life going backwards. Birds are going to do what birds do. The song goes on, no matter the circumstances. Creation is irreversible.

Another oddity is the line, “The only tree ever he minded occupying.” This implies that no other tree would do, which gives us a clue that it is a person, not a bird, that we are talking about here. A bird surely wouldn’t mind occupying a different tree.

The next funny move here is the way the last line of the stanza continues in the second stanza. “By the farmer be-// clove to the root.” The poem, itself, like the tree, has been noticeably cleft in two.

Alas, the tree has been cloven in two, and the “spacious future” and “best horizon” for the bird is gone. But at least it has its song for anodyne. (An anodyne is a painkilling drug.)

Song goes on no matter what, but singing, because it is anodyne, is especially useful in difficult times. Larry Barden, in his take on this poem, helpfully points out that Dickinson's second letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, L338, dated April 28, 1862, included this sentence:

"Mr Higginson, . . . I had a terror – since September – I could tell to none – and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground, because I am afraid.”

We can infer that the brave bobolink in this poem is Dickinson herself, and her poetry, her irreversible song. Her song is still moving forward 160 years later.

Life got you down? Be like the bobolink, this poem tells us, and keep singing.  It will be an anodyne. As another Bob pointed out, "One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain."

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. There is an earlier poem in which Dickinson speaks of the Bobolink’s song as an “anodyne,” Fr88. 

2. There is a terrific website call Dickinson's Birds which features recordings of actual birdsong along with Dickinson’s poems. Click on the link to listen to the bobolink.

The Sunrise runs for Both –

The Sunrise runs for Both –
The East – Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill –
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two –
Remotest – still –

Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each – to set –
Wicks wide away –
The North – Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine –
Till Both – can see –

The Midnight’s Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so
Upon Her Bosom – One –
And One upon Her Hem –
Both lie –


    -Fr765, J710, Fascicle 34, 1863

The sky above unites us, even if we are in slightly different time zones. 

The Sunrise runs for Both –
The East – Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill –

This is one of those poems that seems to me to have been written to a specific tune in Dickinson's mind. That 1,2,3 - 1,2,3 - 1,2 rhythm repeats 6 times and lends itself perfectly to melody. I often wonder if Dickinson composed poems to a melody in her head and suspect she did. 

The Sunrise runs. This reminds me of the lines from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," which surely Dickinson knew. 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

In Dickinson's poem you get the impression that the sun is running quickly away from two viewers. But also, because of the syntax, you get a sense of it running "for," or towards, the viewers. And you also get another idea, of the the sun rising and running "for" the sake of the viewers.

It is worth noting that the word "Both" is repeated in each of the three stanzas here. And there is also the word "set" and "two" and "One and One" which further emphasizes the idea of a couple here.

With the word "Troth" in the second line you get a new set of ideas. First is the idea of marriage, or betrothal. Troth means "faith or loyalty when pledged in a solemn agreement." So this Troth, which is the royal color, purple, is a reflection of the seriousness of the relationship of this couple. But it also a reminder that the running sun will return again. It may be running, but it "keeps with the Hill." And the last word in the stanza is "still." The stanza starts with a run, but ends still. 

I like the idea of the hill reaching up toward the sun, the earth stretching towards the betrothal of the purple sky. 

The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two –

Remotest – still –

In the fourth line time has moved forward and it is now noon. The color has changed too. It is blue. This poem is like a painting moving forward in time and shifting its color palette.  It unwinds in time. The blue is one breadth that covers Two. That idea of two becoming one is what I think this poem is ultimately getting at. This reminds me of another poem, this time by Shakespeare, from The Phoenix and The Turtle,

"Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded;

That it cried, "How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love has reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain."

I would guess Dickinson knew this poem too. "Till One Breadth cover Two –" That word "Breadth" has an expansiveness to it, as if the two were widening out into one. This feeling of width continues in the second stanza with the line "Wicks wide away." And it continues further in the the third stanza with the body of arms of night stretched wide one direction and the body stretched another. The overall impression is of two people who are united in an ever-expanding sky. 

The final line of of the first stanza "Remotest still" carries a wistful sense of distance that is mitigated by united sky. What does distance mean in that breadth of blue?

Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each – to set –
Wicks wide away –

Here you get a sense of "hope" in this poem; light set in darkness. The moon in the sky has become a lamp. This is an ancient idea. In Beowulf, for instance, the poet speaks of God setting lamps in the sky when creating the world.

This poem maintains a tension between things being apart and together. It's got that contranymic sense of things moving apart and together at once. You see it in that line "Wicks wide away." The Two lovers are united under the wide sky, but they are still far away from one another. The word "wicks" here can be read as a noun or a verb. To wick is to remove water, and gives the sense of two lovers being moved apart. 

The North – Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine –
Till Both – can see –

This poem takes into account up and down, with that hill reaching up, and latitude and longitude with East and North. It covers all of space you might say. 

The blazing sign of the north is the north star, which shines in iodine. Iodine is the color of a dark shiny blue/black. 

raw iodine

The north star is, like "Troth," another symbol of truth, and guidance too. Here that sign is "blazing," until "Both" can "see." 

The Midnight’s Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so

Now you have the loving idea of the embrace, of two halves of a sphere coming together to unite in the darkness, and the comforting feeling of Home. 

Those reading this poem biographically may see it, like David Preest does, as being about Samuel Bowles, who may have been in Europe at the time this poem was written, or, as Larry Barden does, as being about Charles Wadsworth, who was in San Francisco at this time. Neither are exactly on a different hemisphere of the earth, but both are far enough away that the night sky would just barely reach them at the same time it was reaching Emily on the other side of it. 

And so
Upon Her Bosom – One –
And One upon Her Hem –
Both lie –

The night stretches half way around the earth. On one side is the bosom of night and one side the hem of her skirt. To me "Her Bosom" could refer to another possible lover, maybe one who is not several times zones away, but seems to be so in the house next door, Sue Gilbert Dickinson, Emily's sister-in-law, with whom many believe she was in love. The word "Her" is mentioned four times in this poem. That along with "bosom" and "hem" give this poem a distinctly feminine air. Who knows, maybe Sue was away traveling when this poem was written? 

Biographical surmising aside, and bringing it back Home to the reader, this poem unites us to its writer beneath the colorful cycle of an ever-changing sky, Emily in her hemisphere, and us in this one. 

I love how "Two" has turned into "One/  And One" here, which speaks to our individuality and togetherness at once. Both.

        -/)dam  Wade l)eGraff

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -



        -Fr764, J754, Fascicle 34, 1863



This is one of the most tantalizingly difficult, and yet powerful, poems of Dickinson’s oeuvre. Many terrific essays have been written about it. One of my favorite books, “My Emily Dickinson,” by Susan Howe, is centered around it. The poet Adrienne Rich has written beautifully about it. In this discussion, moderated by Al Filreis, the panel gets into some of its many difficulties. Filreis calls it the most difficult of all Dickinson’s poems. That's saying something with Dickinson, who is one of our most difficult poets.

Why does it intrigue us so much? The edgy danger of a loaded gun I reckon. Add the sexual metaphor of the gun going off and now you have sex added to the mix. Sex and violence. Who can resist?

There are as many interpretations of this poem as there are readers of it, and I recommend looking at several to get a feel for the possibilities. 

Because I’m most interested in the what a poem has to say to, and for, a reader, my own take on the poem focuses there.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

A life being compared to a gun in a corner is a metaphor for unreleased potential. We each have very powerful energy "locked" in us. For Emily, this potential is realized in her poetry. (Her canon, you might say, is her cannon.) This potential is often unlocked through relationship. Therefore, the gun stays locked and loaded in a corner until it becomes useful to someone, to whomever "owns" it. 

 Who is this “Owner” of the gun, this “Master?” I’ve seen interpretations in which “Owner” is read as lover, or as God, or as Self. I would add to that list: Reader. The Reader identifies the meaning of the poem, and thus unlocks its fire power. The poem just sits in a corner until that day.

There is a double meaning to “carried away” in the fourth line, a romantic notion of being chosen, and then getting carried away in a relationship. 

I love the way the repetition of the D sound in this first stanza mimics the plodding sound of gun fire. Read it out loud and imagine a gun shot every time you pronounce the D. 

The next stanza has a wonderful sound too, with the repetitions of "And."  "And now We roam", "And now we hunt," "And every time..."

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

Continuing with the idea of the D sounds, notice the way the sharp sound of “Doe” echoes the "Day" of the first stanza, both of them coming emphatically at the end of the second line. There will be one more echo of this sound in the final word of the poem, "Die." 

The potential of the poet is realized in, among other things, speaking Truth. The poet “speaks for Him.” How do you know it is the Truth the poet is speaking? "The Mountains straight reply."

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through -

If you take the killing in this poem literally, then the first line of this stanza reads as sinister. You smiled at the death of the doe? How could this possibly be “cordial?” But cordial makes more sense if what is being killed is in service to Love. "Cordial light" has a double meaning then with the "light of reason." Our illusions are maddening. They can destroy the ties that bind us together. When you destroy the thing that destroys, it is a great pleasure. 

"Vesuvian face" is a reference to Mount Vesuvius, the famous volcano that destroyed Pompeii. Dickinson uses this metaphor of a volcano often, and I think it generally represents the explosive heat of passion, of the love that roils beneath the veneer of our defensive shells. 

In the next stanza here come those "D" sounds again in full force:

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To guard, or protect, is one of poetry’s powers. (Last night at the Poetry Project’s 2025 New Year’s Day Marathon reading, Jim Behrle, in the wee hours late night, read a very short poem that made this point. Today it is on my mind, and its sentiment is similar to Dickinson's:

Protection Spell for the USA

Oompa loompa doopity dee
Your poetry will protect me.

Oompa loompa doopity do
My poetry will protect you.)

Sharing an Eider Duck pillow points toward intimacy, but the poet makes the difficult distinction that guarding the beloved, the gun-like hardness of that, is even more important than the softness of a shared pillow. Dickinson is fiercely protective of her beloved.

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

To foe of His (Yours) Dickinson is deadly foe. She is a hell of a shot. Her poetry aims to kill. Are you dangerous? Then get ready to face down Dickinson’s fire. Prepare to reckon with her emphatic thumb. 

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -

This is the most difficult stanza to unravel. Here’s how I make sense of it. If the poem is the gun, it can’t die. (It is, after all, merely words on a page.) It can only kill. But it desperately wants to keep its Master (read: reader) alive. Since you, as a living breathing human with a heart-beat, are fragile, and have the "power to die," then the poem wants you to outlive it. You must try to outlive the necessity of this poem so you may use your locked potential to protect others in turn.


       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

It's interesting that the poem just before this one in fascicle 34, Fr763, overtly chooses hate over love. This poem skates awfully close to hate. But, in my reading at least, what is hated is the very thing which obstructs love.  It champions the murder of ignorance for the sake of love.