In my opinion Emily Dickinson is a female version of Edgar Allan Poe. Of which both I am a sincere fan. The dictionary is never far when I read their works.
A few lines from ‘The Sleeper’ -E.A. Poe ( Born Jan 19th 1809 – Died Oct 7 1849 )
‘In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin !
It was the dead who groaned within.’
A few lines from ‘Because I could not stop for Death’ – Emily Dickinson ( Born Dec 10 1830 – Died May 15 1847 )
‘Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –’
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, –
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile.
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
An excellent poem to read when starting a Sunday.
As from the earth the light Balloon
Asks nothing but release—
Ascension that for which it was,
Its soaring Residence.
The spirit looks upon the Dust
That fastened it so long
As a Bird
Defrauded of its song.
-Emily Dickinson. A complete book of poems by Emily Dickinson.
There’s something about starting a day reading a poem by Emily that pushes my morning into a positive light.
A Poem by Emily Dickinson.
The Missing All – Prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge-
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed-
‘Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson. Page 228, (985)
I especially enjoy Emily’s use of punctuation as she saw fit. Fitting her needs of expression. I don’t ask why she capitalized some and not others in a judgmental manner. As I was judged recently on a poem I wrote. No. I ask why because I’m pushed internally to know more and better learn her state of mind. Why judge an artist when it’s their creativity that drew your eyes to begin with.
Emily is a master. She was then also. It wasn’t Emily’s fault it took decades for understanding to catch up.
Cheers. Post written by -M. Taggart.
The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-
A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.
Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson. 414 (1075) page 241.
Gavin, smile at that Narrow Wind. You’ll see him often and it should never ruin your mind. And though clouds truly can be mean let the debates take place and observe- Nature is not against you.
And if you’re able to catch the snow flake, do. Smile and let the rest wonder.
It’s a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture.
I fear a Man of frugal Speech-
I fear a Silent Man-
Haranguer – I can overtake-
But He who weigheth – While the Rest-
Expend their furthest pound-
Of this Man – I am wary-
I fear that He is Grand-
Final Harvest. Emily Dickinson. 221 (543) pg 136.
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – Too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest, 85 (288)
Considering the current events I think this poem is fitting. Emily is among the best of poets. I’ve read hundreds and hundreds of her poems yet hadn’t read this until a close colleague shared it today. Enjoy.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
It’s a dreary day in New England. I’m winding down my work day and wanted to share an inspiring poem written by one of the best.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sing the tune without the words-
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-
I’ve heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.
Final Harvest. Emily Dickinson 63, (254)
This morning I took my coffee on the deck and admired the frost. Within that moment Emily Dickinson was yet again my teacher.
I Started Early – Took my Dog-
And visited the Sea-
Emily Dickinson, Final Harvest. 209 (520)
Emily reminds me that we don’t need to name our poetry. Emily also reminds me that a few words say much.