Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–
Never deny Me–Never fly–
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–
Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

    -F745, J722, Fascicle 36, 1863

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Mountains, literal mountains, do not lie. They are the very symbols of the unsymbolic fact. They represent solid thingness, isness.

It took me awhile to get that aspect of this poem. I kept wanting to make religious metaphors out of those mountains, since that is what the poem seems to be doing. But this is a poem, I've come to realize, about doing the opposite; turning the abstract metaphor back into a mountain. In this way, this poem "turns" on the reader.  

Never deny Me–Never fly–

The second line of this poem looks, at first, like a plea: Please “Never deny me! Never fly!” and, because of the dash after "lie," which may be read as a period, you can read it this way. But, if we see this line as, instead, continuing from the first line, with a comma after "lie" instead of a period, then the poem is saying that the mountains don’t lie to you, nor do they deny you, and nor will they fly from you. There’s no reason to beg them not to, because they won’t! Dickinson is crazy clever, using that slippery syntax to turn the line from a plea to fact, which, it turns out, is a key to understanding the entire poem. 

The land itself, those large reminders of the earth below us, which are also rising above us, are unvarying. We can count on the earth.

Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

It is ourselves who cannot be counted on. It is we who “feign” (lie), not the mountains. We deny. We fly. While we “fail or feign,” the mountains “turn on us” with those unvarying eyes, eyes with a “far–slow–Violet Gaze–” (It is we, really, who are turning, just as it is we who are lying. The mountains doen’t turn. They stay steady.) These eyes of the mountains are far-seeing, unlike ours. They are, unlike ours, slow. They take the long view you might say.

The gaze of the mountain is violet. Why? I can think of two reasons. One is that it is sunset. Of course it isn’t sunset for the mountains so much as it is for the viewer. The mountains are too far-seeing to be affected by days and seasons. It isn’t the end of the day for the mountain, but for us. In poetry-parlance the end of a day means the end of a life. We will see this idea confirmed in the next stanza.

But violet is also the color of a flower, and perhaps this mountain is covered with wild violets. The suggestion, at any rate, is there. These mountains are "sweet" like that.

The Sweet Mountains are reconfigured, in the first line of the second stanza, as Strong Madonnas. Sweet Mountains = Strong Madonnas. Notice how Dickinson subtly ties the two together with those initial consonant sounds. Madonna is old Italian for “My Lady.” The mountains aren’t masculine here, as one might expect, but feminine. (One thinks of breasts perhaps?)

Madonna is also a common epithet for Mary, mother of Jesus. Dickinson is having fun here, as she often does, with re-appropriating religious nomenclature. This is funny because she has just intimated to us in the first stanza that the mountains "turn on" her for taking the Royal Names in vain. But when we realize that the mountains are steady, undeniable and far seeing, we get that they are not a bit worried about our taking the “Royal Names in vain.” So here, in the second stanza, she is playing very loose with "Royal Names." (This is a very subtle joke and I didn’t get it until I was writing about it. The pleasures of the deep Dickinson dives are manifold.)

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–

Again, that “Cherish still” seems like a plea, but once you realize that the pleas in the first stanza are, in fact, facts (mountains don’t fly), then you see that “Cherish still” is, also, a fact. These strong ladies, these mountains, cherish the wayward nun no matter what. And by this point in the poem, "wayward," has become tongue-in-cheek. The Poet is less a wayward nun, and more a mountain herself with a far slow gaze. 

“Whose service is to You”

“You,” here, means the mountains, but it also means the reader. She is rendering you a service, by helping you plant your feet on the solid ground, and by aligning your eyes, like she has done, with the far slow gaze of the mountains.

If you keep the double meaning of “You” in mind, then those last lines of this poem are quite moving,

Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

Ah, Emily. How can we not love you?


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–"

Note: One funny little part of this poem I didn't account for is the phrase "beneath the hill."

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–

It is hard to read "beneath the hill" and not think of the wayward nun being buried in the ground. Since we are reading this poem posthumously, it is possible to read these lines as presaging the future: "My strong Madonnas still cherish the wayward nun who is (now) buried beneath the hill and whose service is to You." The poet is still giving service, in the Whitmanic sense, by bequeathing her body to the earth, although, humbly, she has become a hill instead of a mountain, but she's also still giving service to You, in her poetry, and in this very poem. Her future readers, then, are

"Her latest Worship–When the Day

Fades from the Firmament away–"

and she is lifting "her brows on You."

She dwelleth in the Ground—

She dwelleth in the Ground—
Where Daffodils—abide—
Her Maker—Her Metropolis—
The Universe—Her Maid—

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her Thee—be mine—

    -F744, J671, Fascicle 36, 1863


When I first read this poem I assumed from the first line that it was about a woman buried in the ground. But then as I read further and further into the poem this reading no longer made sense. I was stuck. I did some research and found the following helpful information from David Preest:

“We are saved from guessing the name of the flower in this riddle poem, because Fanny Norcross, Emily’s cousin, noted on her copy of the poem that Emily had sent it to her ‘with a crocus,’ and the crocus does indeed dwell and live her life in that ground where the daffodils are biding their time before they appear next. This explanation of the poem is derived from Judith Farr’s book, The Gardens of Emily Dickinson.’”

Ah, thank you David, Judith and Fanny.

Once you have this “key” to the poem, then it is quite lovely to think of the crocus, the first flower of spring, having a maker (and, by extension, all of creation) as its bustling metropolis and the universe as its maid, with the firmament (the sky) bringing the flower grace and hue (color) and fairness (beauty) and renown (fame). That's the job of the firmament and the universe, but the job of plucking the flower and giving it to her cousin Fanny, belongs to Emily.

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
(is the job of) The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her (to) Thee—be mine—

If people can be compared to flowers (a comparison Dickinson has made in other poems,) then the wonderful idea of this poem can be transferred to the self. All of creation is our city, the universe is our maid, and the sky brings us grace and color and beauty and fame. This idea can be seen in a poem from earlier in this fascicle, with mother nature showing us infinite affection and infiniter care. 

It may be the work of the firmament and the universe to take care of us, but it’s the pleasure of the poet to pluck this grand conception of ourselves, put it in a poem, and give it to us.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

 

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 –

       -F743, 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. 

 

No Other can reduce Our

No Other can reduce Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it be Nought –
A Period from hence –

But Contemplation for
Cotemporaneous Nought
Our Mutual Fame – that haply
Jehovah – recollect –

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

Invited from Itself
To the Creator’s House –
To tarry an Eternity –
His – shortest Consciousness –

  

    -F738, J981, Fascicle 36, 1863


This poem took awhile to come to terms with. (And perhaps I still haven't.) At first I took “mortal consequence” to mean “death,” as in, the consequence of being mortal is…death.

But eventually I started to think that “mortal consequence” might have more to do with the meaning of our life, the consequence, or importance, of it.

One crux of this poem for me is in the opposing, but complimentary, ideas in the first and third stanza here. In the first stanza you get:

No Other can reduce Our
Mortal Consequence (the importance of our lives)
Like the remembering it be Nought – (nothing)
A Period from hence – (say, 1000 years from now)

That is a dismal thought, but also liberating. Need we worry so much?

Now that we are reduced to NOTHING, the third parallel stanza gives us the flipside:

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence (the importance of our lives)
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

We may be nothing in the long run, but let us remember for now we exist. We exist! Existing is the exalted consequence of existing.

That is the wallop this poem packs for me. The reduction to absolute nothing followed by the exaltation in mere being is a rhetorical move with a singular power.

We’ve looked at the parallel structure of stanzas one and three. Let’s back up and look at that second stanza:

But Contemplation for
Cotemporaneous Nought
Our Mutual Fame – that haply (haply = perhaps)
Jehovah – recollect –

Okay, so we may be nothing, but we must note that we are nothing COTEMPORANEOUSLY. We are nothing together, in time (co-temporanously). This existence together IS our mutual fame. Not only do we exist, but we exist together in time. One can hardly help thinking here of the (ironically) famous Dickinson poem, (F260), “I’m Nobody! Who are you?/ Are you – Nobody – too?/ Then there’s a pair of us!”

Perhaps we are nothing, and there is nothing more to it than that, but perhaps (“haply”) Jehovah will recollect us. (To give it the proper Dickinsonian twist, perhaps we are the remembrance of God?)

This second stanza sets us up nicely for the exaltation of the third and fourth stanza.

No Other can exalt Our
Mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it exist –
A Period from hence –

Invited from Itself
To the Creator’s House –
To tarry an Eternity –
His – shortest Consciousness –

This is, more or less, how I read these two stanzas, as one long sentence:

Nothing else can exalt the importance of our lives like God’s (our) recollection of it, a period from now, when the soul has been invited, from itself, to tarry, in the house of creation, for an eternity, which is, after all, just a short while for God.

There are many other ways to read this poem, and Dickinson will, herself, change its meaning further, a few years after she wrote it down in this fascicle, and present it to Sue. She will remove the last two stanzas, the very part of the poem I like most. I love the parallel structure alive in this earlier version that takes us from nothing to exaltation. Perhaps she had lost some of that exultation in 1865?

For me the poignant paradox of nothing vs. existence, and how it is reflected in the temporal vs. eternal, is at the crux of this poem. And the heart of it would be the deepest realization of the "cotemporaneous Naught."


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff



notes:

1. My friend Brice Hobbs pointed out to me that Period in this poem is capitalized. That capitalization does strike me as being pointed. Dickinson uses capitalization to the greatest effect. A simple capitalization from her can carry an entire essay of meaning. This is a good example. Dickinson is talking about a period in the future. But she is also talking about THE period in time, so anticipated by so many, which would be Heaven (which is clear in a poem referencing Jehovah) or, merely, the Afterlife.

By capitalizing Period Dickinson may be drawing attention to the indeterminate quality of some "later" period. You don't know how long or short it is.

A period would traditionally have a beginning and an end. It is counterpoised here with "eternal," which is where the poem ends up. Although, remarkably, Eternity, at the end of this poem, is posed as the shortest PERIOD of God's consciousness. The irony in Dickinson is on another level.

There is also, perhaps, a play on the syntactical "period." This poem possesses no syntactical periods. In fact it uses the much less determinate dash to signal a break between lines. You might even say it doesn't have sentences. You can see a nod toward the infinite in the dash. It has an ongoingness a period just doesn't have. It is also less determinate in meaning. In fact, in this very poem, you see some quite slippery dash usage. Look at the dash in the poem after the word "exist." If you put a period there, you get a very different meaning to the poem. The following line becomes a variable line, which can point forward or backward into the poem.

Dickinson is, in both her form and content, unperioded. She is unsentenced. Unstoppable.

2. Brice also pointed out that the word "hence" could mean both future and consequence. I hadn't caught the "consequence" idea of hence, but it is a beautifully complexifying wrinkle. It deepens the argument when you see that "hence" in this poem even RHYMES with 'consequence," twice. A consequence is a conclusion. A period is also a conclusion. Therefore, we have a connection between Period and hence. Hence also means, therefore, "period." Hence also means "therefore." Period.

3. A note on the word "haply." Haply means "perhaps." The question of the existence of God and an afterlife is elicited by this word. This is a line of thought you can trace through all of Dickinson's poetry. I find her ever deepening questioning of "Eternity" to be endlessly entertaining and edifying. It may seem, upon first reading, that it is only if there is an afterlife ("haply") that we are exalted in God’s eternal memory. But I think there is a sense in this poem, nonetheless, that our mere existence, co-temporaneously, together in time, has an eternal divine quality outside of time, one that doesn't need an afterlife, or any sense of God as Other. Perhaps that is why she later took out those last two stanzas.

4. This is the first poem of the 36th fascicle. It is a powerhouse opener. I'm becoming more and more convinced that these fascicles were arranged with forethought by Dickinson. It makes sense, seeing that she arranged everything in her life very carefully, from her Herbarium when she was 9, to her affairs when she was 33.

 

I many times thought Peace had come

I many times thought Peace had come
When Peace was far away —
As Wrecked Men — deem they sight the Land —
At Centre of the Sea —

And struggle slacker — but to prove
As hopelessly as I —
How many the fictitious Shores —
Before the Harbor be —



     -F737, J739, Fascicle 35, 1863



When you are in dire straits there is nothing worse than a false hope. One false hope is bad enough, but how are you supposed to deal with one after another after another? The metaphor in this poem is apt. When you are struggling to keep your head above water, and have been disappointed by yet another false sighting of land, how do you keep from giving up and just going under?

I sat with this poem for a couple weeks as I was traveling. When I saw people struggling, (which you see everywhere if you are really looking,) I was reminded of it. It seemed to speak for these people. A poem like this is effective, in part, because it makes us feel less alone in our own struggles. Here is a woman who has been there, who understands what it is like to have one hope after another dashed. We bond through our pain, and here Dickinson gives us a poem much less complicated than her usual fare. The simplicity of it is important. It aids in the catharsis. It helps us relate.

But there is another way it is effective. It encourages us not to give up. There is the barest glint of hope in this poem. You see it in that surprising turn of phrase, “struggle slacker.” When a sailor thinks he sees land, he brightens with hope and therefore his struggle slackens. This is a mistake. The poem seems to be pushing us toward making every last effort, reminding us not to be misled by false hopes, not to slacken our struggle.

And then there is that word “fictitious,” which reminds us that the fictions we tell ourselves, the constant promises of romance we are confronted with daily, will only lead us away from the true goal.

This is the last poem of Fascicle 35. Fascicle 35 differed, it seems to me, from the fascicles that preceded it in its intent. While I don’t question the sincerity of the poems in this fascicle, they feel less insular. They seem to be made more with a general reader in mind. This poem is a good example. It says to the astute reader, "Don’t be a sucker like I was. Fight against the false promises of fiction." I don’t know what to do with the fact that Dickinson wasn’t actually sending these out to a general audience for publication. Perhaps she had faith they would eventually make it into the right hands. If so, then her faith has been rewarded. It's remarkable to think that we might well be the real harbor Dickinson was struggling so hard to reach. Poetry's victory over fiction!


-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. Franklin prints the original version of the last line, ‘Or any Harbor be.’ Johnson prints her marginal variant, ‘Before the Harbor be.’ There is a pretty dramatic difference between the two. The variant carries hope in it, since it implies a real harbor, whereas the original does not, as it continues the idea of the harbor being, like the shores, fictitious. Normally I stick with the original, and present the variant, but here I let my optimistic side take over, romantic sucker that I am. Of course, if you want to go the cynical route, you could read it as "How many the fictitious Shores — Before the Harbor be (fictitious also) —" That's really dark, which I also appreciate. But the point is that you can read it both ways, so with the variant there is more -possibility.

P.P.S. David Preest tells us that Dickinson “had occasion to use line 4 herself in the year after this poem, because in September 1864, towards the end of a miserable summer spent in Boston with her cousins having eye treatment, she begins a letter (L294) to Sue with ‘At Centre of the Sea’ as a kind of heading to the letter before saying, ‘It would be best to see you _ it would be good to see the Grass, and hear the Wind blow the wide way in the Orchard.’"

You said that I “was Great” — one Day —

You said that I “was Great” — one Day —
Then “Great” it be — if that please Thee —
Or Small — or any size at all —
Nay — I’m the size suit Thee —

Tall — like the Stag — would that?
Or lower — like the Wren —
Or other heights of Other Ones
I’ve seen?

Tell which — it’s dull to guess —
And I must be Rhinoceros
Or Mouse —
At once — for Thee —

So say — if Queen it be —
Or Page — please Thee —
I’m that — or nought —
Or other thing — if other thing there be —
With just this Stipulus —
I suit Thee —


    - F736, J738, fascicle 35, 1863

To follow the psychological and philosophical dynamics of a poem such as this one is tricky. What exactly is being said?

Here is Emily being told by an admirer that she is Great. (And who would argue?) Emily, who seems to be immune to flattery, responds by saying that she’ll be Great if that’s what suits the adoring lover (or reader). But if another size suits, she’ll be that instead. She is as great or small as we need her to be. Is she being humble? She’s beyond humble, she’s “relative" to our needs, if we but knew what our needs were. Ironically, it is Dickinson's transcendence of the need to be Great that makes her so Great.

When told that she is “Great,” the poet makes a number of sly moves.

1. She starts by acknowledging that perception is tied into the desires of the perceiver. “You said that I “was Great” — one Day —/ Then “Great” it be — if that please Thee —”

2. The desire for Greatness stems from the lover, but the poet’s responding desire is to be whatever the lover wishes her to be, whatever pleases.

3. “Or Small — or any size at all —/ Nay — I’m the size suit Thee —” Here the poet subverts the compliment. She takes the idea of “greatness” and applies it to size instead of “worth.” In this way she’s is transcending the idea of worthiness. Great means, simply, large. The complimenter has been derailed. That’s not what they meant by “Great.”

4. Just in case we don’t get that she’s talking about size, Dickinson gives us some examples. Would you have me be tall like a stag? Would that do for you? Or would you prefer me small like a wren. This is a philosophical move. She has let us know that she can be any size that suits us, but she is also questioning the relative worth of sizes all together. Is a stag better than a wren just because it is taller?

5. Then in stanza two she makes another funny move. She says, “Tell which — it’s dull to guess —” Even though she’s subtly dismissed the relative worth of sizes, she’s still asking the lover/reader to be clear about what they want. Do you want me to be small or large, make up your mind. There is also a human quality in this statement. The poet is expressing a degree of vulnerability, as she has been left guessing. The implication here is that when we are not clear about our desires, we leave others hanging unfairly. I believe she saying something to the effect of, “You tell me I’m great, but then you ignore me. Which is it?" This tracks with a few other poems in Fascicle 35 in which Dickinson wonders why an unnamed friend is withholding their smile, including the poem just preceding this one, which contains the lines, “But what must be the smile/ Upon Her Friend she could confer/ Were such Her Silver Will —” 

6. “And I must be Rhinoceros/ Or Mouse —/At once — for Thee —” I take this as saying, “When you don’t let me know what you want from me I don't know whether to make myself small (recede in the background) or large. Since I'm willing to be whatever pleases you, the least you can do for me is to let me know what that is."

Here we run into the constant “problem” we have with interpreting Dickinson’s poetry. On one hand these poems are “personal,” and stem from her real-life circumstances and relationships. On the other, they are public and written for the general reader. In a letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, in 1862, Dickinson wrote, “When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse – it does not mean – me – but a supposed person” (L268)

So, in a poem like this one, we are getting a kind of philosophical treatise on relativism, but it is also being delivered from the standpoint of a real person dealing with a real-life situation. This makes it doubly valuable for us. For what would be the value of reading about a squabble between lovers without a dispassionate reflection. And on the flip side, what is the value of philosophical distancing without real world practicality? Thus, in the fine line between the two, we have the unique value of poetry.

7. “So say — if Queen it be —/ Or Page — please Thee —” In the fourth and final stanza Dickinson makes another move as she switches from talking about relative size to power dynamics. A Queen commands and a Page is a servant. (There is also some gender dynamics at play here, as a Page is traditionally male, but subservient to a Queen.) This is interesting in how it plays out in the poem itself. Dickinson is both playing the Page in this poem, “I’ll do whatever suits you, my Queen,” AND playing the Queen by demanding something of the lover/reader/page. She is asking for an assertion of will, but also is willing to be subservient to that will. Emily wants her lover/reader to be assertive about what they want. “It’s dull to guess.”

8. “I’m that — or nought —/ Or other thing — if other thing there be —/ With just this Stipulus —/ I suit Thee —” Though Dickinson is tired of guessing, she is very amenable to the lover/reader’s needs, if he/she would only be clear about them. She can be anything, or nothing ("nought,") either way is okay. She just has one stipulation, that it suits you. (And really, there is another implied stipulation here; that it works for you, and that you tell what works for you.)

Dickinson makes up a word here, “Stipulus.” I’m guessing she did this because "stipulation" didn’t fit the scansion of the poem. She does provide “requirement” as an alternative word in the original MS, but the made-up word is more fun. It suits me.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

a small wren astraddle

P.S. In looking up the letter to Higginson in which Dickinson speaks of her poetic voice as a "supposed person," I made a small discovery. In this same letter she also compares her (real) self to to a small wren, and asks if "this will do." So this letter may be a precursor to this very poem. Here is the letter in full:

"Could you believe me-without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur- and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves- Would this do just as well?

It often alarms Father-He says Death might occur, and he has Molds of all the rest- but has no Mold of me, but I noticed the Quick wore off those things, in a few days, and forestall the dishonor-You will think no caprice of me-

You said "Dark." I know the Butterfly-and the Lizard-and the Orchis -

Are not those your Countrymen?

I am happy to be your scholar, and will deserve the kindness, I cannot repay.

If you truly consent, I recite, now-

Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon, to commend - the Bone, but to set it, Sir, and fracture within, is more critical. And for this, Preceptor, I shall bring you-Obedience-the Blossom from my Garden, and every gratitude I know. Perhaps you smile at me. I could not stop for that-My Business is Circumference-An ignorance, not of Customs, but if caught with the Dawn - or the Sunset see me - Myself the only Kangaroo among the Beauty, Sir, if you please, it afflicts me, and I thought that instruction would take it away.

Because you have much business, beside the growth of me-you will appoint, yourself, how often I shall come-without your inconvenience. And if at any time-you regret you received me, or I prove a different fabric to that you supposed - you must banish me -

When I state myself, as the Representative of the Verse-it does not mean-me-but a supposed person. You are true, about the "perfection."

Today, makes Yesterday mean.

You see my posture is benighted.

To thank you, baffles me. Are you perfectly powerful? Had I a pleasure you had not, I could delight to bring it.

Your Scholar"

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below —

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known —

Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —

Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —

     -F735, J737, Fascicle 35, 1863

In this poem Dickinson pens a paean to the Moon.

It begins with the poet looking at the round face of the Moon and remembering how just a few days ago only the golden chin of this face was showing. The moon is not only alive, but golden, and She slowly reveals Her perfect face to us below.

Dickinson describes the face of the Moon in the richest of terms. The forehead, for instance, is of amplest blonde. The phrase “amplest blonde” is underscored with its open “ahh” assonance. It's not just ample blonde. It's the amplest. In these incremental ways, this poem, like the moon, reveals the glory of itself. 

It’s worth noting that this is the second time Dickinson has used the word “blonde” in fascicle 35. (Here is an interesting essay on the word “blonde” in Dickinson’s oeuvre, including this poem, if you are interested.)

In the second stanza we find out the moon’s cheek is like hewn beryl. The word hewn gives us the idea of the moon’s face having been sculpted, or at least cut like a gem. 

Raw beryl ready to be hewn into a moon's cheek.

Then we get this lovely comparison, “Her Eye unto the Summer Dew/ The likest I have known —” The way Dickinson has phrased this, "Her eye unto the Summer Dew," gives the sense that the summer dew is somehow emanating from the eye of the moon itself, like tears, or a liquid gaze. The second half of this phrase, “The likest I have known,” makes the connection between the moon and the dew complete. The thing most like the rejuvenating dew of the morning is seen in the glistening eye of the moon. This is the third time the word “dew” has been used in fascicle 35. In F733, Dickinson writes of how the dew is the same the world through, on earth as it is in heaven, and here, in this poem, you see a reflection of this idea, as the dew on the earth appears to be reflected in the moon’s eye.

Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —

The moon’s face is shown to be a kind of patchwork of precious metals and gems; a golden chin, beryl cheeks and amber lips. The idea that there is a radiant smile behind the never-parting amber lips of the moon is wonderful. The moon would only have to exercise her "Silver Will" to unleash Her smile. “Silver Will” is a memorable phrase. The moon may not be smiling, but she is willing Her silver light to the world.  

The idea of willing a smile recalls the poem just before this one in fascicle 35. “Trivial — a Smile —/ But won’t you wish you’d spared one/ When I’m Earl?” But I don’t get the sense here that the Moon is withholding a smile out of any kind of neglect. She's just not explicitly revealing it. The smile is there, beneath the surface, always, an inner joy that reveals itself in the imagination of the poet. It is worth comparing this poem to another great Dickinson description of the moon in F593, in which the moon is self-sufficient and independent; “Independent, Amber—/ Sustain her in the sky—/ engrossed to Absolute—/ With Shining—and the Sky—/ / The privilege to scrutinize/ Was scarce upon my Eyes/ When, with a Silver practise—/ She vaulted out of Gaze—”

The fourth stanza shows even the remotest star is enamored with the moon:

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —

The idea in this stanza can be compared to another poem, F717, which can be found near the beginning of fascicle 35:

How imminent the Venture –
As One should sue a Star –
For His mean sake to leave the Row
And entertain Despair –

A Clemency so common –
We almost cease to fear –
Enabling the minutest –
And furthest – to adore –

The "remotest" privileged star, here, is like the “minutest and furthest” adoring star in the earlier poem. 

In the fifth and final stanza we move from the face to the rest of the Moon, Her “body,” which extends to the whole universe,

“Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —”

The moon’s bonnet is the sky (the Firmament) and the Universe is her shoe. That’s quite a shoe! An alternate word Dickinson has for “Universe” is “Valleys.” To say the sky is the hat and the valleys are the shoe makes an easier sense. But I like that Dickinson expanded the shoe to be the entire universe. The hyperbole is fitting for the subject matter.

In the last two lines a subtly amorous suggestion enters the poem. There is the Moon's belt of stars, and there are Her dimities of blue. Dimities are sheer cotton fabrics, often used in undergarments. If you couple the dimities with the belt, there is, perhaps, the idea of more to be disclosed.

The overall effect of this poem is in the cumulative way it brings the moon to life in all of its opulent majesty. This effect is reflected in the poetry. The way the moon is slowly revealed, bit by precious bit, and then expands to encompass the whole universe, is what reading an Emily Dickinson poem is like. First you see the lyrical glimmer of the poetry, its "golden chin," and then, after spending some time with it, its perfect form reveals itself to you, as if from above. 

    -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

No matter — now — Sweet —

No matter — now — Sweet —
But when I’m Earl —
Won’t you wish you’d spoken
To that dull Girl?

Trivial a Word — just —
Trivial — a Smile —
But won’t you wish you’d spared one
When I’m Earl?

I shan’t need it — then —
Crests — will do —
Eagles on my Buckles —
On my Belt — too —

Ermine — my familiar Gown —
Say — Sweet — then
Won’t you wish you’d smiled — just —
Me opon?


    -F734, J704, Fascicle 35, 1863

Though this poem is, as far as Emily Dickinson poems go, fairly easy to follow, there is, nonetheless, a complex and subtle mix of tones. This poem both pushes and pulls, is both yearning and dismissive, insecure (“this dull girl”) and confident (“When I’m Earl”), censorious and coy, light and heavy, sweet and bitter.

Almost all of us have been in the position of being snubbed, and, if we are honest, most of us have also been in the position of being the snubber, even if it was unthinkingly. This poem has something to say to both sides of this equation. 

If you are the snubber, this poem reminds you that it is such a “trivial” thing to smile, to just say a kind word. The word “trivial” isn’t trivial here. You can tell because Dickinson uses the word twice. Dickinson poems are extremely concise and every word counts, so if a word is used twice, take note. Another word that is used twice in this poem is “Sweet.” This also tells you something important. If this poem seems bitter, the extra “Sweet” reminds us that any anger is tempered within the confines of a familiar relationship.

If, on the other hand, you are the one who has been snubbed, this poem reminds you to remember your royal nature. You have an “Earl” emerging inside of you. Don’t forget it.

There is a self-assured knowingness that this narrator has that is inspiring. She isn’t whining about the lack of attention. Rather she is, sweetly, instructing the person who is inattentive. She knows that she possesses a royal nature. Dickinson often writes of herself in such royal terms. She knew her true worth. Do we know ours?

This poem is perhaps most notable for its gender fluidity. We have a 19th century girl from Amherst dressing up like an 18th century English earl. One suspects this poem was written for Emily's sister-in-law Sue. Maria Popova, in an essay on Dickinson's letters to Sue, writes,

“Dickinson would frequently and deliberately reassign gender pronouns for herself and her beloveds, recasting her love in the acceptable male-female battery of desire. Throughout her life, she would often use the masculine in referring to herself — writing of her “boyhood,” signing letters to her cousins as “Brother Emily,” calling herself a “boy,” “prince,” “earl,” or “duke” in various poems. Again and again, she would tell all the truth but tell it slant, unmooring the gender of her love objects from the pronouns that befit their biology. Later in life, in flirting with the idea of publication, she would masculinize the pronouns in a number of her love poems — “bearded” pronouns, she called these — to fit the heteronormative mold, so that two versions of these poems exist: the earlier addressed to a female beloved, the later to a male.”

In this poem the narrator starts off as a dull girl, and then blossoms to become a fancy Earl. The transformation from a feminine signifier to a traditionally masculine one happens within the poem itself. There are other examples of this, like in F225, for example, where Dickinson goes from wife to Czar. The narrator doesn’t become male so much as transform into a powerful figure who is traditionally male. This move has a twofold effect; not only does it subverts patriarchal roles, but it also broadens the definitions for women.

Just look at the language that accompanies this transformation! There is the “crest,” with its double meaning; both royal crest and tip top. Then there are those eagles. Not only are they on the earl's buckle, but we find out they are on the belt too. They appear to be proliferating even as this "dull girl" is transformed into an Earl. In the "crest" of sky, this poem implies, eagles will fly. This poem may, itself, be seen as the crest of the poet's eagle-like flight. Watch out little ermine. 

       -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

 

P.S. Christine Miller, in "Poems as She Preserved Them,” changes the “opon” in the final line to “upon.” But I’m more inclined to leave it the way it is. Dickinson has this same spelling in other poems, so I believe it is her preference. I don’t know why Dickinson would prefer it this way, but I bet she had a good reason. Any guesses as to why?