Soldiers march through stormy fields of dark blood Deft duty drives them forward through the fight Their enemies sink into lib’ral mud
Tough skeins of battle rage beneath the flood Of muscle might and politics with might Soldiers march through stormy fields of dark blood
Lib’ral dust then alights blocking the good Smothering every glad spark on what’s right Their enemies sink into lib’ral mud
Brav’ry removes gloom from the neighborhood As the dying mourn their loss through the night Soldiers march through stormy fields of dark blood
That lib’ral breath pollutes is understood Their vote demands the other side lose sight Their enemies sink into lib’ral mud
Lib’ral press corrupts the news with falsehood Their sycophants proclaim their cause is right Soldiers march through stormy fields of dark blood
No mind without a compass can do good Lib’ral slime blinds the soul and clouds all sight Soldiers march through stormy fields of dark blood Their enemies sink into lib’ral mud
Image: Retouched by Grok photo of Vachel Lindsay – Original at internetpoem.Com
Vachel Lindsay’s “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight’’
One of Vachel Lindsay’s most noted poems focuses Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth American president. In this elegy, Lincoln strolls about “at Midnight” contemplating the tragedy of nations being in on the brink of a world war. The Civil War president wonders therefore about his own legacy.
Introduction and Text of “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight’’
Vachel Lindsay’s father was a physician, who urged his son to study medicine, but the son discovered that he did not want to be a doctor. He dropped out of Hiram College and studied for a time at the Chicago Art Institute and later at the New York School of Art.
While in New York, Lindsay started poetry writing. He would print out copies of his poems and sell them on the street. He enjoyed a fairly high level of recognition for his writing, and particularly for his performances of his works. He believed that poetry was to be heard more than read, and his lively concerts brought him a wide audience.
One of his most noted poems focuses on the sixteenth president of the United States. Titled “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight,” with the subtitle “In Springfield, Illinois,” the poem consists of eight stanzas each with the rime scheme ABCB and separates into four movements.
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us:—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free; The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?
Image b: Abraham Lincoln – Civil War Talk -Daguerreotype image of Abraham Lincoln – earliest known photograph – 1846 – by Nicholas H. Shepherd
Commentary on “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight’’
One of Vachel Lindsay’s most noted poems takes as its subject the sixteenth president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, likely the most beloved president of all forty-five presidents.
(As of 2024, there have been a total of 45 US presidents. Grover Cleveland had two non-consecutive presidencies, #22 and #24, and after the 2024 presidential election Donald Trump has repeated that feat as #45 and #47; thus while there have been 47 presidencies, there have been only 45 presidents.)
First Movement: Reporting a Portentous Event
It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
In the opening stanza, the speaker declares that “a mourning figure walks” near the courthouse, and this is a “portentous” event that needs to be reported.
In the second stanza, the speaker enumerates other places where the figure has been seen walking: by the home where the figure once lived and where his children played, in the market place “on the well-worn stones.” And he “stalks until the dawn-stars burn away,” thus the title Lincoln “walks at midnight.”
Second Movement: Worries and Restless Roused from the Grave
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us:—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
The third stanza describes the figure’s appearance: bronze, lank, wearing a black suit and top-hat. These characteristics, the speaker claims, “make him the quaint great figure that men love.” And he adds that the figure is “The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.” This description makes it quite clear that the figure is Lincoln.
In the fourth stanza, the speaker surmises that Lincoln is worried and restless and cannot remain in his grave; he has to come join the other people of the town who also “toss and lie awake.” And because the restless living people are kept awake by worries, they see the long dead figure walking among them.
Third Movement: Concerned with World Conditions
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
The speaker reckons that the president is worried and unable to sleep because he is cogitating over world conditions. Lincoln is likely thinking about “men and kings,” and he is distressed about the struggling poor people of the world and the “sins of all the war-lords.”
Lincoln paces in the town at midnight, with a load of worries that he knows are bothering this fellow citizens. The problems of the world he seems to carry on his own shoulders, including all the “folly and the pain.”
Fourth Movement: A Question of Peace
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free; The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?
In the final two stanzas, the speaker makes the startling claim that Lincoln will not be able to rest until peace comes to the world: until Europe is free, and people wise up and bring long-lasting peace the world over “to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.”
The speaker claims that Lincoln remains sorrowful because kings are still murdering, and all of his own former earthy endeavors seem to be “in vain.” He then concludes with the question about who will finally be the one to bring about peace on this earth, so that Abraham Lincoln’s soul may be at rest and his body lie “sleep[ing] upon his hill again?”
Image c: Retouched photo by Grok and Gemini of Vachel Lindsay – Original at Alchetron
Image: T. S. Eliot – National Portrait Gallery, London
Life Sketch of T. S. Eliotand Poem Commentaries
T. S. Eliot remains one of the twentieth century’s most influential poets and critics. Born in the USA, he later became a British citizen, and he influenced modernist literature through his poetic innovations, cultural critiques, and dedication to forms.
Early Life and Education
Thomas Stearns Eliot was born on September 26, 1888, in St. Louis, Missouri, to a prosperous and intellectually active family [1]. His father, Henry Ware Eliot, was a successful businessman, and his mother, Charlotte Champe Stearns Eliot, was a teacher and poet.
Early in life Eliot was physically frail and exhibited introspective leanings. A hernia limited his childhood mobility; thus he was motivated to dive deeply into literature [2]. Early on, he developed a strong affection for classic and French literature, especially Dante and Baudelaire.
Eliot attended Smith Academy in St. Louis and later Milton Academy in Massachusetts. At Harvard University, he majored in philosophy and literature, [3] studying under major literary figures including Irving Babbitt and George Santayana. He earned his B.A. and M.A. at Harvard.
As Eliot’s interest in philosophy deepened, he began to study Sanskrit and Eastern philosophy; these studies helped to provide the spiritual atmosphere around his poetry. He also became acquainted with the works of F. H. Bradley, whose ideas on metaphysics impressed him strongly.
In 1910, Eliot traveled to Paris to study at the Sorbonne under Henri Bergson and others. He returned to Harvard for doctoral work but left before completing his dissertation on Bradley. His intellectual journey then led him to travel to England, where he settled permanently.
Eliot’s European education and philosophical bent became the foundation upon which he built his unique style and achievement [4]. His understanding of American pragmatism and European modernism afforded him the ability to compose a type of poetry that was intellectually rigorous, culturally resonant, and spiritually honest.
Accomplishments and Awards
T. S. Eliot became a British citizen in 1927 and was awarded the Order of Merit by King George VI in 1948 [5]. That same year, he received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He was also awarded the Dante Prize from the Dante Society of America and received honorary doctorates from prestigious universities, including Oxford, Harvard, and the University of London [6].
Eliot’s powerful impact on literature and culture has continued to extend beyond prestigious awards. As an editor at Faber & Faber, he encouraged the careers of numerous writers, including W. H. Auden and Ted Hughes [7].
Eliot’s achievement in the field of drama is still recognized today. His plays, including Murder in the Cathedral and The Cocktail Party, have earned praise from critics as well as popular success, broadening his influence into theatrical literature.
Publications
Eliot’s first major poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” was published in 1915; the subject and style of that poem began to point to a new direction in modern poetry [8]. The poem’s fragmented, stream-of-consciousness structure and dour ironic tone surprised—even shocked and startled—many readers.
Published in 1922, his monumental poem, The Waste Land, cemented him as the primary voice of modern disillusionment with the approaching spiritual dryness [9]. Edited with the input from Ezra Pound, the poem mixes myth, earlier literary pieces, and clips from foreign languages in its depiction of the fragmentation of culture.
In “Ash Wednesday” (1930) and Four Quartets (1943), Eliot’s poetic vision put on display its maturity. These later works took on a spiritual tone, influenced by his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927 [10]. Four Quartets in particular reveals his meditative musings on time, historical progression, and soul redemption.
In addition to poetry, Eliot became a productive essayist. His work on criticism, The Sacred Wood (1920), introduced and elucidated his literary concept of the “objective correlative,” which continued to influence literary studies for decades [11].
Eliot also edited The Criterion, a ground-breaking literary journal that became a major source for modernist literature and critical thought between 1922 and 1939. His editorial prowess influenced literary conversations in Europe as well as in the USA.
Special Interests/Controversies
Eliot’s spiritual journey, resulting in his 1927 conversion to Anglo-Catholicism [12], shaped his personal life as well as his poetic perspective. He felt that Anglicanism was a stabilizing force amid decay and modern unruliness. Eliot’s social criticism, especially in Notes Towards the Definition of Culture (1948), promoted tradition and Christian values [13].
An area of controversy [14] involves Eliot’s early poetic depictions of Jewish characters. Passages from “Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar” and other poems have led some scholars to accuse the poet of anti-Semitic sentiment.
Eliot later defended himself from such accusations, and his other defenders have argued that his work simply reflected the cultural climate of his time rather than any personal bigotry. Nevertheless, that distraction continues in certain academic enclaves, particularly those indoctrinated in political correctness and identity politics.
Another controversial issue surrounds Eliot’s difficult marriage to Vivienne Haigh-Wood. Their marriage was scarred by emotional instability and illness and ended with her being institutionalized in Northumberland House [15], where in 1947 she died. Although Eliot never divorced Vivienne, he did later confess that the marriage had been a disaster.
In 1957, Eliot married Valerie Fletcher, who had been his secretary. Unlike Eliot’s first marriage, his life with Valerie proved very happy, leading to a quiet contentment for the couple. After Eliot’s death in 1965, Valerie served as curator of his literary legacy. She edited his works and letters, helping to preserve his literary reputation [16].
She approved the adaptation of “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” into the musical “Cats,” which proved a financial success for the Eliot estate as well as all involved in that Broadway project.
Despite—or maybe even because of—such personal trials and tribulations, Eliot’s work continued to address questions of identity, morality, and spiritual awakening. While the depth of his intellectual capacity remained somewhat hidden, it seemed to be veiling his personal anguish, and critics have continued to explore that issue.
Illness and Death
In later years, Eliot’s health declined as he suffered from emphysema and other health complications [17]. He died in London on January 4, 1965, at the age of seventy-six. Eliot’s ashes are interred at St. Michael’s Church in East Coker [18], the Somerset village from which his ancestors had emigrated to the USA.
Legacy
T. S. Eliot’s influence is still felt in the literary genres of poetry, criticism, and the theater. His commingling of tradition with innovation redirected the orientation of English-language literature.
By integrating metaphysical speculation with poetic form, Eliot reconstituted modern poetry. His ability to describe cultural decay while at the same time suggest spiritual awakening affords his writings lasting importance.
His poetry continues to attract interest from scholars, critics, general readers, and other poets. In a century splattered by chaos, Eliot’s voice offered—and continue to offer—a rigorous response to the chaotic leanings of modernity and life in general. Eliot remains an essential figure for study in the area of twentieth-century literary studies.
Sources
Most of the sources, which I originally used in print form, are now conveniently offered at Internet Archive.
Maybe his memories are locked Under a grin With rolling paper bags To keep them in. He probably pushes doll dresses Or stages wakes. You won’t see him in the thick Of things like shipwrecks, Although he might canoe downstream, If someone else paddles. He may use tools with short handles But no one knows where he keeps them. He is not a mystery, only a puzzle With a few missing pieces. He is volcanic but not violent. His flair for luster is sometimes bold. His lack of tolerance is rolled In mixed nerves and senses. He could be struggling for self-seizure Or maybe he is just getting off on the flowertops And saving the stems for later.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “‘Arcturus’ is his other name”
Emily Dickinson’s “‘Arcturus’ is his other name” reveals the speaker’s playful resistance to scientific classification and her determination to preserve the mystery, beauty, and spiritual significance of the world she experiences.
Introduction and Text of “‘Arcturus’ is his other name”
In “‘Arcturus’ is his other name,” the speaker objects to the intrusion of scientific terminology into her personal experience of nature. Stars, flowers, butterflies, Heaven, and the Kingdom of Heaven become threatened by labels, measurements, classifications, and maps.
Yet beneath her humor lies a serious spiritual concern. The speaker wonders whether scientific knowledge can ever replace direct experience. Her playful complaints finally become a defense of wonder, imagination, spiritual intuition, and her hope that Heaven remains a familiar place.
“Arcturus” is his other name
“Arcturus” is his other name – I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day – A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam” – “Centipede”! “Oh Lord – how frail are we”!
I pull a flower from the woods – A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath – And has her in a “class”!
Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat – He sits erect in “Cabinets” – The Clover bells forgot.
What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now – Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst” – Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed – I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come – And laugh at me – and stare –
I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl – Old fashioned – naught – everything – Over the stile of “Pearl.”
Commentary on “‘Arcturus’ is his other name”
The speaker playfully challenges the authority of scientific terminology while defending a more intimate way of experiencing creation. Her humor gradually reveals a deeper concern: whether classification can cause human beings to lose their sense of wonder.
First Stanza: “‘Arcturus’ is his other name”
“Arcturus” is his other name – I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere!
The speaker begins with a seemingly simple complaint. She knows that the star has a scientific name, “Arcturus,” but she prefers the uncomplicated word “Star.” The capitalized “Star” preserves something that the technical name seems to remove: mystery.
Her complaint that science is “mean” gives the opening a delightful touch of humor. Science has apparently committed the offense of taking something beautiful and familiar and making it technical.
The speaker does not necessarily reject knowledge itself. Instead, she objects when knowledge interferes with personal experience. Her “Star” remains something capable of inspiring wonder precisely because she does not need to reduce it to a definition.
The word “Star” also seems more intimate than “Arcturus.” The speaker wants to retain a personal relationship with the heavenly object rather than allowing a scientific designation to become the whole of its meaning.
The distinction becomes important throughout the poem. Scientific language identifies, measures, categorizes, and organizes. The speaker wants to experience. Her preference for “Star” therefore becomes a defense of mystery.
Second Stanza: “I slew a worm the other day”
I slew a worm the other day – A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam” – “Centipede”! “Oh Lord – how frail are we”!
The speaker next turns from the heavens to a small creature on earth. She has killed a worm, and a passing “Savant” immediately converts the ordinary event into an opportunity for learned observation.
The strange word “Resurgam,” meaning “I shall rise again,” adds another layer of humor. The speaker seems amused by the learned man’s reaction because his elaborate terminology contrasts so sharply with her ordinary experience. She sees a worm; he sees an object requiring identification. The final cry, “Oh Lord – how frail are we”! introduces mortality into the scene.
The worm is tiny, yet its death causes the observer to reflect upon human frailty. The speaker therefore moves effortlessly from the physical world toward spiritual questions. The little creature becomes a reminder that life is temporary.
The speaker’s humor does not prevent seriousness. Her world is filled with death, but death also points beyond itself. The physical creature becomes an occasion for contemplating the larger mystery of existence.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s recurring interest in the relationship between earthly existence and a transcendent spiritual reality. That concern appears again here as ordinary nature opens into thoughts about mortality.
Third Stanza: “I pull a flower from the woods”
I pull a flower from the woods – A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath – And has her in a “class”!
The speaker now presents a flower as another casualty of scientific classification. She simply “pull[s] a flower from the woods,” apparently enjoying its natural beauty. Suddenly, a “monster with a glass” appears.
The description is comic because the scientist has become almost frightening in the speaker’s imagination. The “glass” is presumably a scientific instrument, but the speaker transforms the observer into a “monster.”
The scientist’s instrument reduces the flower to measurable parts. The “stamens” can be counted and classified, but the speaker is interested in the flower as a living, beautiful presence.
Her use of the feminine pronoun “her” makes the flower seem almost like a little personality rather than an anonymous specimen. The individual flower possesses a presence that scientific classification does not adequately express. The phrase “has her in a ‘class’” is particularly important.
Classification gives the scientist information, but it also removes some of the flower’s individuality. Once assigned to a class, the particular flower becomes representative of a category. The speaker’s objection therefore concerns more than terminology. She is defending the individual against abstraction.
Paramahansa Yogananda offers an illuminating parallel when he describes spiritual investigation as something that should lead beyond discussion toward direct experience. He writes that spiritual seekers need “the satisfaction of knowing Truth by direct experience.”
Fourth Stanza: “Whereas I took the Butterfly”
Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat – He sits erect in “Cabinets” – The Clover bells forgot.
The butterfly provides an even stronger contrast between living experience and scientific preservation. The speaker remembers taking a butterfly in her hat, an intimate and almost childlike act.
The scientist, however, has placed the butterfly in a cabinet, where it sits rigidly displayed. The phrase “He sits erect” makes the preserved butterfly sound almost like a person forced to maintain proper posture.
The humor masks a sadness. The living creature that once moved among flowers has become a specimen. The butterfly has lost the freedom and movement that gave it its natural identity. The final phrase, “The Clover bells forgot,” is especially poignant. The butterfly no longer participates in the living world where it once moved among clover flowers.
The speaker therefore suggests that observation can become destructive when it separates a living thing from the world that gives it meaning. The scientist may possess knowledge about the butterfly, but the speaker remembers something different: the butterfly alive.
Paramahansa Yogananda similarly distinguishes between intellectual discussion and inward realization. He explains that meditation provides a means of experiencing spiritual truth directly rather than accepting it merely as “blind belief or dogma.”
The connection is important because the speaker also values experience over abstraction. Her butterfly is not merely something that can be preserved, named, and displayed. It is something she has encountered personally.
Fifth Stanza: “What once was ‘Heaven’”
What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now – Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too.
The speaker now carries her complaint into the spiritual realm. Earlier, “Science” interfered with a star, a worm, a flower, and a butterfly. Now it seems to have invaded Heaven itself.
The word “Heaven” has been replaced by “Zenith,” a technical astronomical term. This change is especially significant because Heaven is not merely a location in the physical universe. For the speaker, Heaven is the destination of the soul after “Time’s brief masquerade” is finished. The phrase makes earthly life seem temporary, almost theatrical.
But even this destination has apparently been “mapped and charted.” The speaker’s comic complaint therefore becomes more profound. If science can map the heavens, what remains mysterious about Heaven? The speaker does not appear to be rejecting Heaven. Quite the opposite is true. She cares deeply about preserving its mystery.
Her anxiety arises because something sacred has been transformed into something apparently measurable. The distinction between Heaven and “Zenith” therefore becomes a distinction between spiritual meaning and physical description.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s continuing interest in the relationship between earthly existence and a transcendent spiritual reality. Here again, the speaker refuses to confine existence to what can be measured by physical observation.
Sixth Stanza: “What if the poles should frisk about”
What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst” – Whatever prank betides!
The speaker now turns the tables on scientific certainty. If scientists believe they understand the structure of the universe, what would happen if the poles suddenly “frisk about” and “stand upon their heads”?
Her imaginary catastrophe is deliberately absurd. Yet the absurdity serves a purpose. The speaker recognizes that the universe may be stranger than human beings imagine.
Her “worst” is not simply physical disaster; it is the possibility that reality may refuse to behave according to human expectations. The word “prank” makes cosmic disorder sound almost mischievous.
The universe itself becomes capable of surprising humanity. Instead of pretending that she understands everything, the speaker admits that she must remain prepared for whatever happens.
Her attitude contains a kind of spiritual humility. She is willing to acknowledge that human beings possess limited knowledge and that reality may extend far beyond what the senses reveal.
Paramahansa Yogananda likewise presents spiritual investigation as a disciplined search for realities that extend beyond ordinary sensory consciousness. He describes meditation as a systematic means through which consciousness can be turned inward toward a deeper spiritual reality. The speaker’s humor therefore conceals a serious virtue: she is willing to admit that the universe may be larger and stranger than her own understanding.
Seventh Stanza: “Perhaps the ‘Kingdom of Heaven’s’ changed”
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed – I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come – And laugh at me – and stare –
The speaker’s anxiety becomes more personal here. She imagines that even Heaven may have become “new fashioned.” The scientific world has already changed the names and meanings of earthly things; perhaps Heaven itself has changed while she has been away.
The imagined inhabitants of Heaven are “Children,” and the speaker worries that they may regard her as old-fashioned. This image is amusing, but it also reveals her vulnerability.
Her concern is not really about fashion: ”New fashioned” represents a world that has changed so radically that her old understanding no longer seems acceptable. The speaker fears arriving in eternity only to discover that eternity has changed. The irony is delightful because Heaven is traditionally imagined as the place beyond time and change.
Dickinson’s speaker makes the infinite universe feel intimate enough to contain family-like embarrassment, affection, laughter, and acceptance. Heaven becomes almost like a household in which the speaker hopes she will still recognize everyone.
The capitalized “Children” may also suggest the innocent inhabitants of Heaven. The speaker hopes that spiritual innocence will not have been replaced by some new, unfamiliar order. Her concern ultimately reveals that what she seeks is continuity. She wants the spiritual world to remain recognizably connected to the one she has always imagined.
Eighth Stanza: “I hope the Father in the skies”
I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl – Old fashioned – naught – everything – Over the stile of “Pearl.”
The final stanza transforms the speaker from a playful critic of “Science” into a vulnerable child. She imagines God as the “Father in the skies” who will lift her over the “stile of ‘Pearl.’”
The elaborate theological argument finally becomes a simple request for loving acceptance. The speaker calls herself “his little girl,” immediately establishing an intimate relationship between herself and the Divine Father.
She does not claim spiritual perfection. Instead, she describes herself as “Old fashioned – naught – everything.” The contradictory phrase suggests that she is simultaneously innocent, troublesome, imperfect, and completely herself. The “stile of ‘Pearl’” evokes the familiar Christian image of Heaven’s entrance—the pearly gates— while “stile” keeps the scene wonderfully rural and Dickinsonian.
Heaven is not imagined as an abstract theological doctrine. It becomes a little gate over which a loving Father helps his child. The image brings the enormous mysteries of eternity into an intimate, almost domestic scene.
Paramahansa Yogananda emphasizes the personal element of the search for God. Self-Realization Fellowship explains that the seeker may approach the Divine as “the Heavenly Father,” “Divine Mother,” “Friend,” or “Beloved.”
The speaker’s Father is similarly personal, intimate, and loving. She does not end by asking for an explanation of Heaven. She asks to be received by the Father whom she already trusts.
The poem therefore ends not with scientific certainty but with trust. After objecting to names, measurements, classifications, maps, and charts, the speaker returns to the simplest relationship of all: a little girl trusting her Father to carry her home.
Dickinson Riddles
“‘Arcturus’ is his other name” is one of Dickinson’s delightful riddles because the speaker never simply announces that science is wrong. Instead, she dramatizes the difference between knowing something intellectually and experiencing it intimately.
Arcturus remains a star whether it is called Arcturus or simply “Star.” The flower remains beautiful whether its stamens are classified. The butterfly remains a living creature regardless of its scientific category.
The problem arises when the label begins to replace the experience. The speaker therefore does not have to reject scientific knowledge in order to defend her own way of seeing. Her objections become increasingly spiritual. Science first names the star, then classifies the worm and flower, preserves the butterfly, maps the heavens, and finally seems capable of changing Heaven itself.
Yet the speaker does not end in despair. She ends in relationship. Her final hope is that the “Father” will recognize his “little girl” and carry her over the “stile of ‘Pearl.” The spiritual world remains meaningful because it is personal. The speaker does not need to understand every mystery before entering eternity. She needs only to trust that the Father will recognize her.
Paramahansa Yogananda’s teaching offers an illuminating parallel. He emphasizes direct realization rather than merely intellectual discussion, writing that the seeker ultimately comes to know spiritual truth through direct experience.
The speaker’s preference for “Star” over “Arcturus” similarly protects an experience that remains larger than its scientific designation. Her star is not merely an astronomical object; it is part of a universe capable of inspiring wonder.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of privileging inner knowledge over outer awareness. That habit is especially evident here. The speaker does not require scientific approval before she can call Arcturus “Star,” cherish a flower, remember a butterfly, or trust in Heaven.
Her contemplative musing finally produces a charming spiritual confidence. The speaker can laugh at scientific interference, acknowledge her own uncertainty, imagine cosmic disorder, and still believe that the Father in the skies will recognize her.
The speaker’s confidence does not depend upon possessing complete knowledge. Indeed, she openly acknowledges uncertainty. What matters is that she retains her capacity for wonder and maintains faith in a reality that cannot be exhausted by scientific terminology.
The poem’s deepest opposition is consequently not simply between science and religion. It is between classification and experience, between an external description and an inward comprehension of reality. The speaker insists upon preserving room for wonder.
Paramahansa Yogananda likewise describes the spiritual path as a disciplined search for direct realization rather than a passive acceptance of religious ideas. Self-Realization Fellowship identifies this approach as a “scientific” search for direct personal experience of God.
This connection helps illuminate the speaker’s position. She objects when science claims too much authority over experiences that possess emotional and spiritual dimensions. At the same time, she remains curious about the universe and willing to admit that she does not know everything.
The final image is therefore both humorous and deeply tender. The speaker does not need to understand every mystery before entering eternity. She simply hopes that the Father will welcome and carry his “little girl” through the Heavenly gate.
The “stile of ‘Pearl’” becomes an appropriate final image because it is simultaneously ordinary and transcendent. A stile is something one climbs over in the countryside; Pearl evokes Heaven’s gate. The speaker joins the earthly and spiritual worlds in one affectionate image.
The poem has moved from a distant star to a worm, from a flower to a butterfly, from Heaven to the poles, from the Kingdom of Heaven to the Father. The movement becomes increasingly personal until the speaker finally stands before God as a child.
Science can name Arcturus, count stamens, classify butterflies, and map the heavens. But the speaker reserves for herself something that cannot be placed in a cabinet or charted on a map: her personal experience of wonder.
Her final hope is therefore not that she will arrive in Heaven as an expert who understands everything. She hopes instead to arrive as herself—”Old fashioned – naught – everything”—and to be recognized and lovingly carried across the threshold.
That ending captures the poem’s deepest charm. The speaker’s resistance to scientific interference is ultimately a defense of the mystery that makes existence meaningful. She wants the universe to remain large enough for beauty, uncertainty, faith, imagination, and love.
And so the speaker’s playful question about whether “Arcturus” should be called “Star” becomes a much larger question about the human desire to know. Knowledge can name the world, but the heart still wants to experience it. The speaker chooses “Star.” She chooses the flower before the classification, the butterfly before the cabinet, Heaven before the chart, and the Father before the theological explanation.
Her final confidence rests not upon possessing every answer but upon believing that beyond the world’s classifications there remains a spiritual reality that recognizes her. The little girl who began by objecting to science ends by trusting the Father in the skies.
The poem thus preserves the very mystery that the speaker fears science might take away. It leaves Arcturus shining, the flower alive in memory, the butterfly ringing with the forgotten “Clover bells,” Heaven still mysterious, and the Father ready to lift his little girl over the “stile of Pearl.”
This Dickinson poem actually dramatizes an idea regarding the effects of science that is similar to Walt Whitman’s much anthologized “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer,” wherein the speaker finds listening to the science of the heavens sickens him, so he moves outside and looks up at the stars from time to time—an act which he finds much more satisfying.
“Dora Williams” is reporting from Camp Santo in Genoa, Italy, instead of from the Spoon River graveyard.
Introduction and Text of “Dora Williams”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “Dora Williams” from the American classic Spoon River Anthology, the speaker, unlike the other posthumous reporters who announce themselves from the graveyard in Spoon River, is offering her shout-out from Campo Santo in Genoa, Italy. The none-too-subtle allusion to Columbus offers an opening salvo of the trash-America-first bunch, who begin with the Columbian discovery of a New World.
Dora Williams
When Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me I went to Springfield. There I met a lush, Whose father just deceased left him a fortune. He married me when drunk. My life was wretched. A year passed and one day they found him dead. That made me rich. I moved on to Chicago. After a time met Tyler Rountree, villain. I moved on to New York. A gray-haired magnate Went mad about me—so another fortune. He died one night right in my arms, you know. (I saw his purple face for years thereafter.) There was almost a scandal. I moved on, This time to Paris. I was now a woman, Insidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich. My sweet apartment near the Champs Élysées Became a center for all sorts of people, Musicians, poets, dandies, artists, nobles, Where we spoke French and German, Italian, English. I wed Count Navigato, native of Genoa. We went to Rome. He poisoned me, I think. Now in the Campo Santo overlooking The sea where young Columbus dreamed new worlds, See what they chiseled: ”Contessa Navigato Implora eterna quiete.”
Commentary on “Dora Williams”
“Dora Williams” offers her report from Camp Santo in Genoa, Italy, instead of from the Spoon River graveyard. Yeah, funny how that works!
First Movement: Making Her Life Miserable
When Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me I went to Springfield. There I met a lush, Whose father just deceased left him a fortune. He married me when drunk. My life was wretched. A year passed and one day they found him dead. That made me rich. I moved on to Chicago. After a time met Tyler Rountree, villain.
Readers will remember meeting Dora as part of the fornicating couple, whom A. D. Blood castigated for using his grave as their “unholy pillow.” The reader will not be surprised to learn the particulars of Dora’s ultimate history.
Dora begins with a brief mention of “Reuben Pantier,” who dumped her and “ran away.” But after Reuben ran off, so did Dora; she “went to Springfield.” There she met “a lush”; she reports that the lush’s father had died and left him a fortune. The lush ends up married to Dora (she blames it on his being drunk at the time) and makes her life miserable.
After a year of this wretched existence, “one day they found him dead.” What’s Dora’s response? “That made me rich. I moved to Chicago.” No word of concern for the man with whom she had lived, just the unadorned report that “they found him dead.” And after relocating to Chicago, Dora meets another man, Tyler Rountree, whom she claims was a “villain.” She gives us no further details about Tyler. Thus she moves on.
Second Movement: Moving On
I moved on to New York. A gray-haired magnate Went mad about me—so another fortune. He died one night right in my arms, you know. (I saw his purple face for years thereafter.) There was almost a scandal. I moved on,
Dora then moves to New York, where the lucky gal again manages to marry a fortune, “a gray-haired magnate,” who again dies. This time in her arms. And Dora claims that she “saw his purple face for years thereafter.” She also admits, “[t]here was almost a scandal.” But then she moves on.
Third Movement: Entertaining the Rabble
This time to Paris. I was now a woman, Insidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich. My sweet apartment near the Champs Élysées Became a center for all sorts of people, Musicians, poets, dandies, artists, nobles, Where we spoke French and German, Italian, English.
Now, Dora finds herself in Paris, and she is “now a woman,” and she describes herself as “[i]nsidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich.” She lived in a “sweet apartment near the Champs Élysées.”
Dora’s pad became a hang-out for such rabble as “Musicians, poets, dandies, artists, nobles.” They spoke “French and German, Italian, English.” Dora has the need to make herself look very sophisticated and cosmopolitan.
Fourth Movement: Marrying a Count
I wed Count Navigato, native of Genoa. We went to Rome. He poisoned me, I think. Now in the Campo Santo overlooking The sea where young Columbus dreamed new worlds, See what they chiseled: ”Contessa Navigato Implora eterna quiete.”
While in Paris, Dora marries again, possibly a man with a fortunate, but maybe not. His name is “Count Navigato,” and he is a “native of Genoa.” They relocate to Rome, where the count poisons Dora; at least, she thinks he poisoned her.
Dora is reporting from a cemetery called “Campo Santo,” which is supposedly “overlooking / The sea where young Columbus dreamed new worlds.” On Dora’s tombstone, the following is engraved: “Contessa Navigato / Implora eterna quiete,” which roughly translates as “Countess Navigato – Rest in Peace.”
The irony is thick and Dora gets it: she lived anything but a peaceful life, having murdered at least two husbands and finally being murdered by her third. Dora—being the “[i]nsidious, subtle, versed in the world” woman that she is—understandably doubts that her rest will be peaceful.
Robert Southey Burke has a huge axe to grind with A. D. Blood. After having once admired Blood greatly, Burke came to hate the man and everything that reminded him of him.
Introduction and Text of “Robert Southey Burke”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “Robert Southey Burke” from Spoon River Anthology, Mr. Burke lets off steam from his animosity toward “A. D. Blood.” A.D. Blood had served as mayor of Spoon River and was annoyed that a couple was now using his grave as a place to fornicate.
Although Blood did not mention Burke, Blood’s personality begins to emerge as a self-righteous, pompous character as Burke unveils his travails. At the same time, Burke reveals his own small, sniveling character as his complaints unfold.
Robert Southey Burke
I spent my money trying to elect you Mayor, A. D. Blood. I lavished my admiration upon you, You were to my mind the almost perfect man. You devoured my personality, And the idealism of my youth, And the strength of a high-souled fealty. And all my hopes for the world, And all my beliefs in Truth, Were smelted up in the blinding heat Of my devotion to you, And molded into your image. And then when I found what you were: That your soul was small And your words were false As your blue-white porcelain teeth, And your cuffs of celluloid, I hated the love I had for you, I hated myself, I hated you For my wasted soul, and wasted youth. And I say to all, beware of ideals, Beware of giving your love away To any man alive.
Commentary on “Robert Southey Burke”
Robert Southey Burke uses his epitaph to rail against A. D. Blood. Although Burke’s specific issues are not clear; it is clear that he came to hate a man he once greatly admired.
First Movement: Electing a Perfect Man
I spent my money trying to elect you Mayor, A. D. Blood. I lavished my admiration upon you, You were to my mind the almost perfect man.
Burke begins by reporting, as he addresses Blood, that he “spent [his] money trying to get” Blood elected mayor. Continuing, Burke claims that he “lavished [his] admiration” on Blood. Burke then admits that he thought Blood was “the almost perfect man.” Either Burke was naïve or Blood was a master at deception, likely a healthy portion of each.
Second Movement: Hero Worship Gone Sour
You devoured my personality, And the idealism of my youth, And the strength of a high-souled fealty. And all my hopes for the world, And all my beliefs in Truth, Were smelted up in the blinding heat Of my devotion to you, And molded into your image.
Burke turns ugly and desperate rather quickly as he laments, “You devoured my personality, / And the idealism of my youth.” Furthermore, Burke accuses Blood of stealing his fierce loyalty in addition to all of his “hopes for the world, / And all my beliefs in Truth.” All of Burke’s hopes and beliefs were bound up tightly in his “devotion” to Blood. Burke had “molded” an image of Blood that was beyond super-human.
Third Movement: Fake, Fake, Fake
And then when I found what you were: That your soul was small And your words were false As your blue-white porcelain teeth, And your cuffs of celluloid, I hated the love I had for you,
Then Burke discovered the real Blood. Burke does not reveal how he discovered the truth about his idol, but once he did, he realizes that Blood had a small soul, that Blood’s words were as fake as his “blue-white porcelain teeth,” and his “cuffs of celluloid.” And after making this shocking discovery, Burke “hated the love [he] had for “Blood].”
Fourth Movement: Admiration Turned to Hatred
I hated myself, I hated you For my wasted soul, and wasted youth. And I say to all, beware of ideals, Beware of giving your love away To any man alive.
Furthermore, Burke despised himself. And he hated Blood for wasting Burke’s soul, youth, and ideals. Burke ends his tirade by offering what he thinks is sage advice: “Beware of giving your love away / To any man alive.” Poor Robert Southey Burke died a lonely, disgruntled, deluded man.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “I can’t tell you – but you feel it”
Emily Dickinson’s “I can’t tell you – but you feel it” dramatizes a spiritual experience that resists explanation but becomes unmistakably real through inward perception. The speaker suggests that some truths are too sublime for ordinary language and must instead be quietly and intuitively felt.
Introduction and Text of “I can’t tell you – but you feel it”
In Emily Dickinson’s “I can’t tell you – but you feel it,” the speaker presents April as something more profound than a change in weather or season. April becomes an experience that cannot be adequately explained through ordinary language.
The speaker immediately establishes a peculiar agreement between two people: neither can explain the experience to the other, yet both apparently recognize it. The poem then moves from April’s sweetness and swiftness toward angels, Heaven, and a childlike preparation for a “sublimer Recitation.”
The speaker’s reluctance to “prate” about the experience is especially significant. She does not want to reduce something sacred to fashionable conversation or ordinary social language. Instead, she recommends quiet participation in the experience itself.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s mystical intuition and her habit of discovering spiritual meaning through ordinary experiences of nature. Her poetry repeatedly transforms the familiar world into a doorway toward questions of immortality, God, consciousness, and the soul.
I can’t tell you – but you feel it
I can’t tell you – but you feel it – Nor can you tell me – Saints, with ravished slate and pencil Solve our April Day!
Sweeter than a vanished frolic From a vanished green! Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen Round a Ledge of dream!
Modest, let us walk among it With our faces veiled – As they say polite Archangels Do in meeting God!
Not for me – to prate about it! Not for you – to say To some fashionable Lady “Charming April Day”!
Rather – Heaven’s “Peter Parley”! By which Children slow To sublimer Recitation Are prepared to go!
Commentary on “I can’t tell you – but you feel it”
The speaker creates a world in which an experience may be known without being explained. April becomes an occasion for spiritual recognition, and ordinary language proves inadequate. The poem gradually moves from seasonal delight toward a reverent awareness of something beyond ordinary human understanding.
First Stanza: “I can’t tell you – but you feel it”
I can’t tell you – but you feel it – Nor can you tell me – Saints, with ravished slate and pencil Solve our April Day!
The speaker begins with an admission that sounds almost conversational: “I can’t tell you.” Yet the admission is immediately balanced by the assurance that the other person “feel[s] it.” The experience therefore does not depend upon verbal explanation.
The second line completes the mutual arrangement: “Nor can you tell me.” Neither participant possesses language sufficient to communicate the experience fully. Both know something, but neither can convert that knowledge into a conventional explanation.
The word “feel” becomes important because the speaker is shifting attention away from intellectual analysis toward direct inward experience. What cannot be stated can nevertheless become real through perception. The poem therefore begins with an experience that belongs more to consciousness than to ordinary description.
The reference to “Saints” introduces a spiritual dimension. Even saints, armed metaphorically with “slate and pencil,” cannot easily solve the mystery of “our April Day.” The image is humorous because the tools seem almost childlike when confronted with something spiritually immense.
The expression “ravished slate and pencil” suggests that the attempt to record the experience is itself overwhelmed by delight. The speaker does not reject thought or writing; rather, she recognizes that certain experiences exceed the capacity of either.
Paramahansa Yogananda similarly distinguishes intellectual understanding from direct intuitive perception. He explains that intuition is soul guidance, arising when the mind becomes calm. The connection with Dickinson’s speaker is striking: both value a form of knowing that does not depend entirely upon verbal or intellectual explanation.
The “April Day” consequently becomes more than a date on the calendar. It becomes an inward event. The speaker seems to suggest that April can be experienced as a spiritual revelation whose reality is immediately available to those who possess the sensitivity to feel it.
Second Stanza: “Sweeter than a vanished frolic”
Sweeter than a vanished frolic From a vanished green! Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen Round a Ledge of dream!
The speaker now attempts another comparison, but her comparisons demonstrate only the difficulty of describing the experience. The April sensation is “Sweeter” than something already pleasurable, yet that pleasurable experience itself has “vanished.”
The repeated word “vanished” introduces impermanence. Whatever the earlier “frolic” may have been, it belongs to the past. Whatever “green” represents, it too has disappeared. The speaker therefore compares April with something remembered rather than something presently available.
This vanishing quality gives the stanza an almost dreamlike character. The experience is beautiful precisely because it seems fleeting. The speaker cannot hold it still long enough to examine it completely.
She then changes the comparison from sweetness to speed: “Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen.” The image is energetic and almost dramatic. Horsemen rushing across a landscape suggest movement that cannot easily be stopped or captured.
The final phrase, “Round a Ledge of dream,” carries the experience into a more mysterious realm. A ledge suggests an edge or boundary, while a dream suggests a condition in which ordinary rules become uncertain.
The speaker therefore seems to be approaching the boundary between ordinary consciousness and something more expansive. April is not merely pleasant; it is an experience that arrives swiftly, transforms perception, and then threatens to disappear before language can capture it.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed her speakers’ mystical intuition in conjunction with her tendency to use natural phenomena as evidence for realities beyond the immediately visible world. Here, the season becomes another such phenomenon.
Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that inner perception becomes clearer as the mind grows calm. Self-Realization Fellowship presents his teaching that meditation brings “greater clarity, understanding, and guidance from within.” Dickinson’s speaker similarly turns away from ordinary explanation and toward an experience that must be directly perceived.
Third Stanza: “Modest, let us walk among it”
Modest, let us walk among it With our faces veiled – As they say polite Archangels Do in meeting God!
The speaker now changes her approach. Instead of attempting to explain April, she proposes that the two participants simply “walk among it.” The verb “walk” gives the experience a physical quality, yet the object of the walking remains mysterious.
The instruction “Modest” establishes the proper attitude. The speaker does not recommend intellectual conquest, confident explanation, or boastful proclamation. She recommends humility before something greater than ordinary human understanding.
The veiled faces deepen this sense of reverence. The image recalls religious representations of angels who cover themselves in the presence of divine glory. The veil therefore suggests that some forms of reality should be approached with restraint.
The speaker then introduces “polite Archangels” who apparently veil themselves when “meeting God.” The adjective “polite” is delightfully Dickinsonian because it reduces a majestic heavenly encounter to the language of social manners.
Yet beneath the humor lies a serious spiritual insight. If even archangels behave modestly in the presence of God, human beings should hardly presume that they can completely explain divine mysteries.
The speaker’s April experience therefore becomes increasingly associated with sacred encounter. She has moved from seasonal sweetness to vanished dreams and now to the presence of God.
The movement is subtle rather than doctrinal. The speaker does not announce a theological proposition. Instead, she creates a little drama in which the reader is encouraged to experience reverence rather than merely receive information.
Paramahansa Yogananda likewise emphasizes inward stillness as a means of approaching divine reality. He teaches that the temple of God is within your soul and encourages the seeker to enter that inner quietness.
That teaching offers a useful parallel to Dickinson’s speaker. She does not send her companion into a public institution or toward a formal lecture. She invites the companion to walk quietly within the experience, veiled and modest, allowing the mystery itself to make its impression.
Fourth Stanza: “Not for me – to prate about it!”
Not for me – to prate about it! Not for you – to say To some fashionable Lady “Charming April Day”!
The speaker now becomes almost comic in her rejection of conventional conversation. Her effusion—“Not for me – to prate about it!”—announces that she has no intention of turning the experience into empty chatter.
The word “prate” is particularly revealing because it suggests excessive or foolish talk. The speaker is not merely saying that she lacks words. She is saying that ordinary social talk would diminish the experience.
She then extends the prohibition to her companion: “Not for you – to say” the conventional thing either. Both participants are being asked to resist the temptation to translate a profound experience into a fashionable compliment.
The imaginary “fashionable Lady” becomes a representative of polite society. Such a person might be expected to observe the beautiful spring weather and pronounce it a “Charming April Day.” That response is perfectly acceptable socially, but it is inadequate spiritually.
The speaker is therefore drawing a distinction between noticing beauty and experiencing mystery. One person sees April as pleasant weather; another encounters something that seems to reach beyond ordinary seasonal description.
The contrast resembles the difference between external observation and inward perception. The speaker does not deny that April is charming. She simply insists that “Charming April Day” fails to express what she and her companion actually perceive.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s preference for private spiritual perception over conventional public religious expression. Her religious imagination frequently moves away from formal social observance and toward direct personal awareness.
Paramahansa Yogananda’s teaching about intuition provides another illuminating parallel. He explains that intuition is direct perception of truth rather than merely an intellectual conclusion. The speaker’s refusal to “prate” about April suggests precisely this preference for direct experience over verbal performance.
The speaker is therefore not being anti-intellectual. Instead, she recognizes that language has limits. Words can point toward an experience, but they cannot necessarily reproduce it. Sometimes the wisest response is not to talk more but instead to become quiet enough to feel more deeply.
Fifth Stanza: “Rather – Heaven’s ‘Peter Parley’!”
Rather – Heaven’s “Peter Parley”! By which Children slow To sublimer Recitation Are prepared to go!
The final stanza introduces the surprising figure of “Peter Parley,” a name associated with popular instructional books written for children. The speaker transforms that educational figure into “Heaven’s ‘Peter Parley,’” producing one of the poem’s most ingenious images.
The childlike reference changes the emotional atmosphere. The speaker has been discussing saints, archangels, and God, yet she concludes by bringing the reader into the world of children and elementary instruction.
The introduction of “Children” is especially important because children are being prepared for something “sublimer.” The ordinary lesson therefore becomes preparation for a higher lesson. The term “slow” also deserves attention. The children do not rush toward the sublime. They proceed gradually, as though simple lessons prepare the mind for increasingly profound truths.
This image offers a possible explanation for the entire poem. The April experience may itself be an introductory lesson. Nature provides something beautiful and immediate that prepares consciousness for a deeper spiritual understanding. The speaker’s April Day is therefore not merely the destination; it may be a threshold.
The sweetness, swiftness, mystery, humility, and silence of the experience prepare the participants for something beyond it. The poem ends without explaining precisely what that “sublimer Recitation” will contain. That omission is essential. The speaker has spent the poem demonstrating that some realities cannot be adequately communicated through ordinary language.
Paramahansa Yogananda similarly presents ordinary human experience as preparation for deeper spiritual realization. He teaches that meditation can awaken intuitive knowledge and attune consciousness to the Divine.
The connection is especially appropriate because the speaker’s final gesture is not toward explanation but preparation. She does not solve the mystery of April. She allows the experience to become a lesson that prepares the consciousness for something greater.
Thus the poem becomes another Dickinsonian riddle. The speaker gives readers enough evidence to recognize that “April Day” means more than spring weather, yet she refuses to provide a simple definition.
The poem’s final wisdom may therefore be contained in its opening statement: “I can’t tell you – but you feel it.” The speaker understands that some truths become most convincing when they are experienced inwardly rather than reduced to ordinary words.
The speaker’s April is consequently a doorway. Behind that doorway lies an experience associated with beauty, transience, humility, divine presence, and preparation for a higher understanding. She does not force the reader through the doorway. She simply invites the reader to feel what words alone cannot say.
“Ace” Shaw features a typical Spoon River braggart whose report justifies his unseemly choice of profession.
Introduction and Text of “‘Ace’ Shaw”
Edgar Lee Masters’ “‘Ace’ Shaw” from Spoon River Anthology attempts to achieve justification of his unseemly choice of vocation by asserting that all jobs are simply the result of “chance.”
The epitaph featuring the character of “Ace” Shaw therefore, reveals and features a typical Spoon River braggart whose report unveils a dodgy personality, whose report attempts to justify his unseemly choice of profession.
“Ace” Shaw
I never saw any difference Between playing cards for money And selling real estate, Practicing law, banking, or anything else. For everything is chance. Nevertheless Seest thou a man diligent in business? He shall stand before Kings!
Commentary on “‘Ace’ Shaw”
Nicknamed for his chosen profession, “Ace” Shaw is attempting to rehabilitate his reputation as a gambler by claiming that all professions operate on the element of “chance.”
First Movement: A Gambler
I never saw any difference Between playing cards for money And selling real estate, Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
“Ace” Shaw, whose nickname identifies him as a gambling man, claims that to him lawyers, bankers, real estate agents, and all others working in any profession or job for money are all gamblers, that is, all those professions are no different from “playing cards for money.”
Point of view is always the most important issue in determining the conclusions each individual will form. “Ace” being a gambling man, and one who is apparently dedicated to his craft, then views his choice as noble and as dicey as the next guy’s. In order to accomplish this rationalization, he has to filter out the actual impact that each profession has on society.
To this type of personality, narcissistic, egotistic, self-centered to the extreme, others do not matter so long as they render unto him what he thinks he deserves. That gambling for money offers no service to society does not enter into Ace’s estimation in determining worth—only the ability to acquire money is his measure. And by that simplistic measure, the gambler does have a point.
However, Ace does not seem to understand that bankers, lawyers, real estate agents, and members of other professions such a medicine, education, media, or even public service actually provide a service to society for which they are remunerated according to the level of service.
That each professional might fail at his work is enough for Ace, and his ilk, to denigrate all of the potential service providers to little more than gamblers, like himself. This line of thinking punishes the good for not being perfect.
Second Movement: Life of Choices
For everything is chance.
Ace claims that everything one does in life remains a gamble. But some things are more fraught with the possibilities for negative occurrences than others. If “everything is chance,” and nothing is sure, then why not set one’s goal higher than mere card playing?
Why not do something that offers a real service? The only answer is that Ace prefers the life of a cardsharp; at the same time, intuitively, he knows his choice is less honorable than the bankers and lawyers he tries to belittle in order to make himself seem more important.
Third Movement: Lazy Man’s Philosophy
Nevertheless Seest thou a man diligent in business? He shall stand before Kings!
Ace is lazy. So instead of explaining his circumstances in order to prop up his choice, he simply quotes Proverbs 22:29: “Seest thou a man diligent in business? / He shall stand before Kings!” By introducing the quotation with “nevertheless,” Ace appears to be contradicting his earlier claims, but his personality would not allow such humility.
The gambler is once again simply justifying his choice by claiming that his proficiency will stand him in good stead. The gambling Ace will “stand before Kings”—and not before the “mean” men who appear in the line, “he shall not stand before mean men,” which follows the two lines from Proverbs that Ace quotes.
