This that would greet—an hour ago—

This that would greet—an hour ago—
Is quaintest Distance—now—
Had it a Guest from Paradise—
Nor glow, would it, nor bow—

Had it a notice from the Noon
Nor beam would it nor warm—
Match me the Silver Reticence—
Match me the Solid Calm—


-Fr879, J778, fascicle 39, 1864f


Dickinson famously wrote, “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” From this letter we know her standard. Each poem had to come from that level of intensity.

“So cold that no fire could ever warm you" is a good description of where this poem takes you. It's cool as death. 

This that would greet—an hour ago—

“This” refers to a body. In Dickinson, corpses are often reduced to impersonal pronouns like “it” or “this.” An hour ago, this was a he or a she, someone who would have greeted you. Now it is only “this.”

Is quaintest Distance—now—

That person is now in “quaintest Distance.” To speak of death as “distance” is already thought-provoking. Is the person at any real distance at all? The word “quaint” complicates things further. It suggests something old-fashioned, even charming. A cabin can be quaint, death cannot. There is an unsettling irony in the word.

Had it a Guest from Paradise—
Nor glow, would it, nor bow—

We might assume the body has gone to be a guest in Paradise. But Dickinson imagines the opposite. If a guest from Paradise arrives, an angel, perhaps, the corpse would not glow or bow in response. The living, however, should respond with awe. The corpse does nothing. It cannot react. It is beyond reverence.

Had it a notice from the Noon
Nor beam would it nor warm—

No sunlight can warm this body. There is no “notice from the Noon.” The sun may shine, but the corpse does not register it. In contrast, we do. We can feel the beam. We can be warmed. We are the ones truly on notice.

Then comes the turn.

Match me the Silver Reticence—
Match me the Solid Calm—

At first this sounds like admiration. “Silver” evokes the pale sheen of death. (I'm reminded of Macbeth describing the murdered King Duncan as having "silver skin laced with his golden blood".)

But “Reticence” is ironic. A corpse is not discreet. It is simply dead. The word lends dignity to what is, in fact, a lifeless silence.

“Solid Calm” works the same way. “Solid” recalls the sheer material fact of the body, dense inert matter. Yet “solid calm” sounds desirable. Who doesn’t want to be solidly calm? Until we recognize what that calm entails.

On one level, the speaker seems to say: I don’t want to feel this pain anymore. Let me have that reticence. Let me be as calm too. Let me not glow or bow anymore to a wonderful guest. Let me be as cold and uncaring as the dead, because that's the way I feel after losing love.

But the poem sneakily operates by reversal. Do you really want to be like a corpse? By holding up the “silver” stillness of death, Dickinson makes us confront its cost. You cannot match that calm without surrendering warmth.

Out of this extreme cold, the poem quietly directs us back toward life. Notice the Noon. Don’t choose reticence. Go to where it is warm.

I often think about poems in terms of contra-valence. As soon as you push toward an extreme, the other side comes to the forefront. Dickinson uses this kind of reverse psychology often.

I should point out here something we've come to take for granted, which is Dickinson's unerring ear. The line "Nor beam would it nor warm" has that comforting "m" ending sound in "warm" and "beam." This gets picked up at the end of the poem in "calm" and in the repeated word "Match." 

By tying the M of match into the M of warm you get a subtle hint toward the pun in the word "Match." "Match me" can also mean, "set me on fire."

Finally, there is a secret "match" made in this poem. The two matches in those final lines cleverly match one another.

      

        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff