He showed me Heights I never saw—

He showed me Heights I never saw—

"Would'st Climb—" He said?

I said, "Not so"—

"With me—" He said—With me?”

He showed me secrets—Morning's Nest—

The Rope the Nights were put across—

And now, "Would'st have me for a Guest?"

I could not find my Yes –

And then, He brake His life—And lo,

A light, for me, did solemn glow,

The larger, as my face withdrew—

And could I further "No"?

                                                            F346 (1862)  446

Version sent to Sue:

I showed her Heights she never saw—

"Would'st Climb," I said?

She said—"Not so"—

"With me—" I said—With me?

I showed her Secrets—Morning's Nest—

The Rope the Nights were put across—

And now—"Would'st have me for a Guest?"

She could not find her Yes—

And then, I brake my life—And Lo,

A Light, for her, did solemn glow,

The larger, as her face withdrew—

And could she, further, "No"?

           

Emily wrote both of these versions about the same time—but we don’t know which came first! Did she write Sue’s version and then adopt it for a Christ-like figure, or vice versa? It’s very frustrating not to know! The “Her” version, was signed “Emily” and sent to her sister-in-law, Sue.  Let’s start with that one.

            The poem’s speaker describes a type of seduction. While the speaker is daring, poetical, and knowledgeable—she climbs mountains, makes sense of the Milky Way, and knows exactly where the sun comes up in the morning (or what it first shines on)—the object of desire is timid. She may want to see these wonders or climb the mountain, but she can’t quite “find her Yes,” a very nice and useful phrase. The imagery is quite sexual: the climb might refer to the mons veneris (mound of Venus) that a woman has, night’s rope and morning’s nest suggest a lifeline one can clutch and then the place of rest and safety.

Milky Way, roping across the night

            There is pathos here: the poet first shows her desired one “Heights,” whether those of a grand adventure or of sexual fulfilment. But the woman says “Not so.” She also apparently declines to have the speaker as a “Guest” despite having been shown the special “Secrets.” It is not until the speaker breaks her life that the woman shows any sign of awareness of what she rejected. As the speaker fades away (dying, perhaps), a “Light…did solemn glow” for the beloved. With all of this, how “could she, further, ‘No’?” Talk about too little too late!

            But there is another way of looking at this poem sent to Sue. Perhaps Dickinson is writing in the voice of Jesus (the “I”) and the poet herself is the “she.” In this case Dickinson is describing some visionary scenes. God shows her secrets and marvels, but she demurs. Finally, as Jesus’ human body is broken and the divine glow becomes larger as Christ withdraws to Heaven, the poet wonders if she could possibly continue to say “No.” This interpretation fits in with Dickinson’s known  refusal at a young age to be ‘saved.’ It is also consistent with her ongoing tenderness towards Jesus. The two conflicting trains of thought would certainly lead her to decline and decline—but then at last stumble over declining.

This latter interpretation holds for the first version of the poem above where the speaker is “He” and the desired object is “I.”  There are two Biblical parallels: the first is the answer to Job by God. Job has been complaining about all his undeserved suffering. God finally “shows” him all the wonderful things He has done and suggests he just keep his mouth shut and acquiesce in whatever life (or God) dish out to him. The second parallel is the temptation of Jesus by Satan. Jesus is fasting and praying, alone in the desert. Satan takes him to a high place and shares secrets of power and glory. But Jesus refuses to take advantage of what Satan might offer. 

            But neither of those parallel stories have the wonderful personal touch of the poems. Here a lover is wooing the beloved. The poems have more the feel of The Song of Solomon, a book of the Old Testament typically interpreted as a parable of the relationship between God and his chosen people. Both that book and these poems speak to the emotions of wonder, sharing, and passion.  

Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?

Afraid!  Of whom am I afraid?

Not Death—for who is He?

The Porter of my Father's Lodge

As much abasheth me!

Of Life?  'Twere odd I fear a thing

That comprehendeth me

In one or two existences—

Just as the case may be—

Of Resurrection?  Is the East

Afraid to trust the Morn

With her fastidious forehead?

As soon impeach my Crown!

                                                            F345 (1862)  608

After a lot of exciting poetry about liking a look of agony on the dying, of seeing ghosts, and of “bleak dreaded” Woe, Dickinson gives us a breather with this rather anodyne poem about facing life and death bravely. Why not, she wonders. Death is nothing more than the “Porter” who lets people into the lodge of heaven. So no fearing death. But what about life? Surely there are sorrows and pains and uncertainties—things Dickinson has written quite movingly about before. But here the poet takes the position that life is not to be feared because, after all, Life in general encompasses life at the individual level. Why should the part be afraid of the whole?

            She notes in almost a throw-away line that Life shouldn’t be feared because it “comprehendeth” or encompasses her whether she has one or two existences “as the case may be.” That’s an interesting way of showing skepticism about the afterlife. Maybe there is an existence after our earthly one—or maybe not! Whatever.

Porter helping new arrival 

            The final stanza presents a straw man argument. Dickinson wonders if she should be afraid of the resurrection. Since the resurrection is supposed to be like spring, a rebirth and living again, why would anyone think she would be afraid of it? But she gives us the answer. No, we shouldn’t be afraid because the East doesn’t fear the sunrise coming to give birth to another day. One of the best lines in this otherwise forgettable poem is the penultimate one where “Morn” comes “With her fastidious forehead.” Each day, I think she is saying, presents a new chance, a clean slate. The sun comes up and the land fills with light. Why, the poet says, she’d just as soon disparage her own headdress and any glory she might receive in the afterlife (“as the case may be”). The word “Crown” suggests both those meanings: the crown of glory in heaven as well as the crown of maidenhood.

'Twas just this time, last year, I died

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms—

It had the Tassels on—

I thought how yellow it would look—

When Richard went to mill—

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will.

I thought just how Red—Apples wedged

The Stubble's joints between—

And the Carts went stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in—

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father'd multiply the plates—

To make an even Sum—

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The altitude of me—

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year—

Themself, should come to me –

                                                            F344 (1862)  445

Haven’t we all imagined our death and, sometimes even more satisfactorily, how our family and friends would get on without us? Dickinson pens a poem here on the subject, adopting a pensive autumnal voice as she takes on the persona of a girl who has been dead for a year.

As I write this commentary the pumpkins have ripened into a full and brilliant orange. The pumpkin festival is coming up next weekend and the town will have a parade, a crafts fair, a giant pumpkin weighing, and all kinds of fun. The last of the corn still stands in the field, guarded by some brightly dressed scarecrows.

            It’s a jolly time, yet sad for the bright colors and wonderful harvest produce will soon make way to the more muted colors and chilly dark days of winter. The speaker of the poem—no doubt a child, for she would expect a Christmas stocking—is loath to leave the world at this time. She could hear the corn—and that’s an old saying: so quiet you can hear the corn grow. The stalks still have their silky tassels as if dressed up for the season. The dead girl is carried by the farms on her way to the cemetery and she seems most taken by all the colors: the corn will be very yellow after the farmhand or miller Richard mills it. The apples have fallen among the hay fields, the red fruit “wedged” among the golden straw. She sees the carts “stooping round the fields” as the bright orange pumpkins are harvested.

            All this is consistent with Dickinson’s fascination with the moments after death. For her, the consciousness does not die—at least not right away. Instead it lingers a while on the sights around. Her more famous ones are “I heard a fly buzz when I died,” and “Because I could not stop for death.” In “Dropped into the Ether Acre” she is in a hearse “Riding to meet the Earl.” The sensuousness of these post-death experiences—a buzzing fly, red apples and orange pumpkins, carriage rides—is just about opposite what religious folks might expect. Instead of preparing her soul and contemplating her life, Dickinson and her personas are taking a last long look at the mortal life and world. There is all of eternity to contemplate the soul, heaven, or whatever awaits. We only have the earth for a short time.

            After admiring the cornfields, the speaker wonders if anything of the world will miss her—the familiar farms, fields, and vegetables. This seems to remind her about Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays to come and whether or not her father would put out extra plates so that there wouldn’t be one missing. Likewise, she wonders if her absence will dampen the spirits at Christmas. Her stocking will be way out of reach, even for Santa and his flying reindeer.

            However, this sort of thinking is depressing, even for a dead person. Fortunately, the speaker lights on a happier thought: Some “perfect” time in the future, her family will die and so join her. Now that’s the way to cheer up!

When we stand on the tops of Things—

 When we stand on the tops of Things—

And like the Trees, look down—

The smoke all cleared away from it—

And mirrors on the scene—

Just laying light—no soul will wink

Except it have the flaw—

The Sound ones, like the Hills—shall stand—

No lightning, scares away—

The Perfect, nowhere be afraid—

They bear their dauntless Heads,

Where others, dare not go at Noon,

Protected by their deeds—

The Stars dare shine occasionally

Upon a spotted World—

And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,

As if an axle, held –

                                                            F343 (1862)  242

It’s a bit unnerving  to imagine the dead saints perched up in heaven looking down at us on earth with the aid of lights and mirrors that reveal our flaws. Those of us who are spotted will seem to “wink” rather than glow with a bright pure light. Those goody-goody “Perfect” folks will trot about in the full light of noon holding their “dauntless Heads” up high. They shine true and pure—no winking for them!

        But thank goodness for those blessed folk because otherwise we might just lose the sun. Only the stars would come around to “occasionally” illuminate our “spotted World.” But since those “Sound ones” can withstand the scrutiny of even the brightest light, the “Suns” (not sure what to make of this plural) can make their rounds with more surety. The “Proof,” or soundness, of the Perfect is as good as an axle to hold the Sun in place. Otherwise—who knows?—it might fly away into the dark spaces of the cosmos.

Not enough "Perfect" in Sodom, so it was destroyed.
Painting by John Martin, 1852

        Dickinson’s use of the sun here is interesting. She has used the sun before as a symbol of intellectual and spiritual illumination, as a personification for God or ideal and worshipful male being, and simply as the epitome of day and light. But in this poem the sun has a rather fragile quality. Far from being a life giver/life sustainer, it doesn’t do well if its world is spotted with imperfect souls. There is an interaction and even interdependency implied between the creator and the created. The risen saints, however, don’t seem constrained. They now can see the world clearly, spots and all. I’m reminded of “I taste a liquor never brewed,” where the saints run to the windows to “see the little Tippler / Leaning against the – Sun!” They haven’t come to judge, only to wonder.

        And that may be Dickinson’s message here. The spotted world is an interesting one, but it takes the saints to keep us all tethered on our course. Maybe she was thinking of the angels who visited Abraham and agreed that if even ten righteous people were found in Sodom and Gomorrah God would not destroy it. Alas, not enough righteous people were found and the wicked cities went up in fire and brimstone.