His squeal was not at all As pathetic as the barnyard pig Whose blood jets propelled That old expression, “bled like a stuck hog”— He bled beautifully, just the right color And sticky-sweet texture she expected from him And his flesh shucked off those bones easy And clean as pulling his t-shirt right off his back. His plump rump slid off as easy as his white cotton Undies. His joints unhooked quick as any brassiere She ever shucked.
Standing ankle-deep in guts She marveled at the cooperation Of the sum of his parts, They seemed to want to be put asunder.
Still, she’s truly sorry it had to end that way— She’d rather his tongue be sliding over hers Than down the gullet of those buzzards—but oh well, His cherubic face glowing like the moon Is a bright charm dangling from her bracelet of old lovers.
Edgar Lee Masters’ “The Town Marshal” and “Jack McGuire”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “The Town Marshal,” a man named Logan is hired by prohibitionists. Logan meets his demise because of his bullying personality. In “Jack McGuire,” the protagonist escapes a lynch mob, and more is learned about the marshal he shot.
Introduction and Text of “The Town Marshal”
The epitaph “The Town Marshal” is followed in the sequence by “Jack McGuire” in Edgar Lee Masters’ American classic Spoon River Anthology. The two need to be read together in order to get the total essence of the marshal’s personality, as well as his name.
Logan, the town marshal, speaks in “The Town Marshal.” Although he remains nameless in his own poem, he is called “Logan” in the companion piece, “Jack McGuire.” Marshal Logan, who was hired by prohibitionists, is killed because he was a bully, but in the final analysis, he can be credited with admitting his fatal flaw.
The Town Marshal
The prohibitionists made me Town Marshal When the saloons were voted out, Because when I was a drinking man, Before I joined the church, I killed a Swede At the saw-mill near Maple Grove. And they wanted a terrible man, Grim, righteous, strong, courageous, And a hater of saloons and drinkers, To keep law and order in the village. And they presented me with a loaded cane With which I struck Jack McGuire Before he drew the gun with which he killed me. The Prohibitionists spent their money in vain To hang him, for in a dream I appeared to one of the twelve jurymen And told him the whole secret story. Fourteen years were enough for killing me.
Commentary on “The Town Marshal”
The town marshal, hired by prohibitionists, is a man named Logan, who meets his demise because of his bullying personality.
First Movement: Marshal by Prohibition
The prohibitionists made me Town Marshal When the saloons were voted out, Because when I was a drinking man, Before I joined the church, I killed a Swede At the saw-mill near Maple Grove.
Logan begins by reporting that he became town marshal because of prohibition. He had been “a drinking man” and had once “killed a Swede,” before he “joined the church.” Logan’s reputation seemed to lend itself to the kind of individual the prohibitionists wanted to enlist to enforce the new statute.
Logan’s grating, obnoxious personality is that of a braggadocio, who is not shy about tooting his own horn. His assessment of the conclusion of the trial of the man who shot him demonstrates this trait.
Second Movement: A Strong Anti-Boozer
And they wanted a terrible man, Grim, righteous, strong, courageous, And a hater of saloons and drinkers, To keep law and order in the village.
Logan explains that prohibitionists wanted a strong, anti-booze man who was “a terrible
man, / Grim, righteous, strong, courageous, / And a hater of saloons and drinkers.” Logan, no doubt, sees himself as his “terrible man,” who could “keep law and order in the village.” Again, the town marshal shows the high estimation he has of himself. His strong sense of self-accomplishment motivates his actions.
Third Movement: Armed with a Loaded Cane
And they presented me with a loaded cane With which I struck Jack McGuire Before he drew the gun with which he killed me.
Logan reveals that the prohibitionists armed him with “a loaded cane,” that is, a walking-stick that contains lead in one end, which renders it a legal weapon. Quickly, the marshal cuts to the heart of the matter, stating that he struck Jack McGuire with this loaded cane just before McGuire pulled a gun and shot Logan dead.
The details of the encounter with McGuire are recounted in McGuire’s testimony, the poem that follows “The Town Marshal” in the Spoon River Anthology. After the reader is apprised of those details, Logan’s personality becomes clearer.
Fourth Movement: Fourteen Years instead of Hanging
The Prohibitionists spent their money in vain To hang him, for in a dream I appeared to one of the twelve jurymen And told him the whole secret story. Fourteen years were enough for killing me.
Logan boastfully takes credit for McGuire’s receiving a sentence of only fourteen years, despite the fact that the prohibitionists “spent their money in vain” trying to get McGuire to swing at the end of a rope.
Marshal Logan claims that he visited one of the jurymen in a dream and told him the whole sordid tale about how he was shot. The story vindicates McGuire, at least, enough so that hanging was not the recommended punishment.
Thus McGuire was sentenced to only fourteen years, and Logan feels that that punishment is appropriate. At least, Logan does finally recognize himself as a bully and wants to see justice prevail.
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Jack McGuire” from his American classic Spoon River Anthology is a companion piece to “The Town Marshal.” In this epitaph “Jack McGuire,” the reader learns more about Logan, the town marshal, in addition to Logan’s “The Town Marshal” soliloquy.
Jack McGuire
They would have lynched me Had I not been secretly hurried away To the jail at Peoria. And yet I was going peacefully home, Carrying my jug, a little drunk, When Logan, the marshal, halted me, Called me a drunken hound and shook me, And, when I cursed him for it, struck me With that Prohibition loaded cane— All this before I shot him. They would have hanged me except for this: My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank, And the judge was a friend of Rhodes And wanted him to escape, And Kinsey offered to quit on Rhodes For fourteen years for me. And the bargain was made. I served my time And learned to read and write.
Commentary on “Jack McGuire”
Jack McGuire escapes a lynch mob, and more is learned about the marshal he shot.
First Movement: Potential Lynch Mob
They would have lynched me Had I not been secretly hurried away To the jail at Peoria.
Jack begins by reporting the startling news that he would have been hanged by a lynch mob, if he had not been “secretly hurried away / To the jail in Peoria.” Jack then implies that his deed in Spoon River had worked up a number of folks who were ready to administer vigilante justice. this is, without a proper trial.
Second Movement: Minding His Own Business
And yet I was going peacefully home, Carrying my jug, a little drunk, When Logan, the marshal, halted me, Called me a drunken hound and shook me,
Jack explains that he was minding his own business, “going peacefully home,” when he was accosted by “Logan, the marshal.” Jack admits that he was “a little drunk” and that he was “carrying [his] jug” on his way home.
But Logan, who was employed by the prohibitionists to enforce the ban on booze in Spoon River, stopped Jack and bullied him, calling him “a drunken hound.” In his bullying fashion, Logan also invaded Jack’s personal space and “shook him.”
Third Movement: Violent Confrontation
And, when I cursed him for it, struck me With that Prohibition loaded cane— All this before I shot him.
Jack reacted to Logan’s harassment by swearing at the marshal. Logan then struck Jack with his “Prohibition loaded cane.” Jack responded by drawing out his gun and shooting the marshal dead.
Fourth Movement: Avoiding Hanging
They would have hanged me except for this: My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank, And the judge was a friend of Rhodes And wanted him to escape, And Kinsey offered to quit on Rhodes For fourteen years for me.
Jack explains how he avoided the gallows, and his explanation differs from Logan’s. Jack’s lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was also the counsel against “Old Thomas Rhodes” who was charged with “wrecking the bank.” The judge in Jack’s case was a friend of Rhodes’ and wanted Rhodes to be acquitted. So Jack’s lawyer Keene “offered to quit on Rhodes / For fourteen years for me.”
The reader will recall that Logan interpreted the fourteen-year sentence very differently; Logan claimed that he appeared to a juryman in a dream and revealed his complicity in his own death, and that resulted in the short sentence for Jack.
Fifth Movement: So He Learns to Read and Write
And the bargain was made. I served my time And learned to read and write.
Jack says he served his term and “learned to read and write.” Jack, of course, knows nothing about Logan’s claim to have appeared in a dream to the juryman. And Logan could not have known about the deal struck between the judge and Keene.
This disconnect opens up a fascinating arena for the evaluation of the worth of each man’s story. While the reader accepts Jack’s version as probably the correct one, the reader cannot with certainty discount Logan’s version.
A bitter irony prevails, however, that Jack, who actually took the life a fellow human being—as opposed to merely being a bully, as Logan was—appears to be the one who came out the winner; not only was his sentence light, but he also learned to read and write to boot.
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 “If I should cease to bring a Rose”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “If I should cease to bring a Rose” asserts that only death can prevent her small acts of tribute and remembrance.
Introduction and Text of “If I should cease to bring a Rose”
Emily Dickinson’s “If I should cease to bring a Rose” thematically sections into two balanced stanzas. The speaker contemplates the only force that could interrupt her customary offerings of a rose on festival days and her naming of commemorative buds.
On the literal level the speaker announces that absence from these gentle rituals will signal her departure beyond earthly flowers. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that our real self, the soul, is immortal and that death is only an experience through which one learns one cannot die.
If I should cease to bring a Rose
If I should cease to bring a Rose Upon a festal day, ‘Twill be because beyond the Rose I have been called away –
If I should cease to take the names My buds commemorate – ‘Twill be because Death’s finger Claps my murmuring lip!
Commentary on “If I should cease to bring a Rose”
The speaker calmly names death as the sole cause that would end her quiet gestures of remembrance and tribute.
First Stanza: “If I should cease to bring a Rose”
If I should cease to bring a Rose Upon a festal day, ‘Twill be because beyond the Rose I have been called away –
The speaker opens with a conditional statement about ending the gift of a rose on a festival day. Such a cessation would not arise from forgetfulness or indifference. The reason rests solely in her having been summoned beyond the rose itself.
The flower stands as the last earthly token she might offer. In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of treating death as a quiet summons rather than a violent rupture.
The phrase “called away” softens the departure into an invitation issued from a realm past physical blossoms. Contemplative musing reveals the speaker’s quiet certainty that only this call could silence her ritual. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that the soul merely sleeps a little while in the change called death yet remains eternally existing.
Second Stanza: “If I should cease to take the names”
If I should cease to take the names My buds commemorate – ‘Twill be because Death’s finger Claps my murmuring lip!
The speaker next considers the naming of buds that keep memory alive. Should that naming stop, the cause would again be death alone. Death’s finger is pictured as gently closing the lip that still murmurs names. The image remains tender rather than harsh.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s steady focus on immortality as the true condition of the soul.The final image seals the poem with quiet finality. Only the touch of death can still the voice that once spoke the commemorative names.
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 “By Chivalries as tiny”
In Emily Dickinson’s “By Chivalries as tiny,” the speaker advances the idea that small chivalrous acts function as spiritual seeds, planting joy that matures beyond sight. This idea aligns with the metaphysical fact that inner realities outlast outer show.
Introduction and Text of “By Chivalries as tiny”
Emily Dickinson’s “By Chivalries as tiny” discloses the speaker’s insight that small seemingly insignificant courtesies sow seeds of joy which later bloom unseen. The poem asserts that small gestures hold cosmic power to produce inner light.
By Chivalries as tiny A Blossom, or a Book The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark
Commentary on “By Chivalries as tiny”
The speaker assets that oft-overlooked courtesies function as spiritual seeds, planting joy that matures beyond sight. This sentiment aligns with the metaphysical reality that inner realities are permanent while outer acts remain temporary..
First Line: “By Chivalries as tiny”
The speaker opens by foregrounding the paradox that smallness contains greatness. “Chivalries” signals courteous acts—gentle, self-forgetting gestures that honor another’s dignity without fanfare.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s ability to dramatize quiet virtues that the world overlooks, yet which sustain the soul’s equilibrium. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that service to others expands consciousness and kindles the soul’s joy, especially when one forgets the little self.
The phrase “as tiny” does not diminish value; it magnifies the mystery that divine influence often arrives through humble channels. Such acts mirror the inner light that glows when the mind grows calm and attentive. The speaker thus frames ethics as aesthetics: courtesy becomes a form of beauty that radiates beyond the moment of giving.
Second Line: “A Blossom, or a Book”
The second line specifies two examples of small gifts: “A Blossom, or a Book.” Both are tangible yet symbolic—nature’s fragrance and thought’s fragrance. A blossom offers sensory delight; a book offers mental illumination.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s treatment of material objects as vessels of metaphysical meaning. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that giving opens the flow of divine abundance and blesses the instrument through which it flows.
The blossom signifies ephemeral beauty that nonetheless points to enduring grace; the book signifies lasting wisdom that feeds the inner life. Either gift can awaken a smile because each carries the giver’s attention and care. The speaker thus presents choice without hierarchy: both nature and art serve as conduits of joy.
Third Line: “The seeds of smiles are planted—”
Here the speaker shifts from object to effect. The dash invites a pause, enacting the moment of planting before the bloom. “Seeds” implies latency; “smiles” indicates inward gladness made visible.
In my earlier essays on Dickinson’s poems, I have discussed the speaker’s frequent use of agricultural imagery to map spiritual growth. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that when we think kindly of others, our consciousness expands, and a part of our being goes forth with that thought.
The planting is silent, yet it initiates a chain of cause that the planter may never witness. The speaker suggests that joy propagates like a living organism, rooted in the soil of the heart. Thus, courtesy becomes generative, not merely decorative.
Fourth Line: “Which blossom in the dark”
The closing line declares, “Which blossom in the dark,” completing the riddle of unseen fruition. “Dark” denotes privacy, night, or the interior where outer eyes cannot track growth.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of privileging inner evidence over public display. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that the inner light awakens as the mind grows calm, becoming a home base for perception beyond the senses.
The speaker’s claim is audacious: what is planted in daylight may flower where no one looks. This revelation affirms a metaphysics of hidden abundance, where value accrues without applause. The poem thus ends in confidence: the soul’s garden blooms even while the world sleeps.
Might think lust-think should shrink even though its lure has became a national pastime; for sure, her mothers’ mothers said time out. But not modern woman— when she lies back, legs wide she grooves that no more children will result. No need for devices to keep juices from colliding. The old girl twin vine is dry, spit out all the seeds, hung its fruit by the root, nothing seeps, except that bit of hormone still fancying itself eighteen, still ripening her apple, she will offer to that young man who thinks the silver in her hair is a gold-mine— he bares his shovel, prepared to dig.
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 “If I should die”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “If I should die” is contemplating the ongoing, indifferent progression of world enterprise following mortal departure. The speaker finds quiet comfort in the uninterrupted continuation of earthly life.
Introduction and Text of “If I should die”
Emily Dickinson’s “If I should die” focuses on human mortality. The poem consists of four movements, utilizing Dickinson’s customary short lines and characteristic slant rime. The speaker considers the inevitable continuation of nature and human activity after individual physical presence ceases entirely.
This short work presents a calm acceptance of death. The speaker reflects on the fact that daily routines proceed without pause: the morning sun, seasonal bird activity, and economic transactions continue unabated. However, instead of expressing grief or dread, this speaker takes solace in knowing that earthly affairs remain active, orderly, and bright.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the poet’s creation of speakers who view physical departure through calmness and detachment. By observing nature and business, the speaker comes to terms with personal transience while celebrating the enduring colorful vitality of the surrounding physical and social world.
If I should die
If I should die, And you should live – And time should gurgle on – And morn should beam – And noon should burn – As it has usual done – If Birds should build as early And Bees as bustling go – One might depart at option From enterprise below! ‘Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie – That Commerce will continue – And Trades as briskly fly – It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene – That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!
Commentary on “If I should die”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “If I should die” is exploring with tranquil acceptance the nature of mortality through the steady, ongoing operations of nature and society.
First Movement: “If I should die”
If I should die, And you should live – And time should gurgle on – And morn should beam – And noon should burn – As it has usual done –
In the opening lines, the speaker introduces a hypothetical situation involving personal death alongside the survival of others: time continues to flow without interruption, described with the word “gurgle.” Morning light shines and noon heat burns just as it always has on the earthly plane.
The speaker emphasizes that natural cycles remain completely indifferent to individual mortality. Morning and noon retain their established routines. This consistency shows that the physical world does not stop or mourn. The universe keeps its steady pace regardless of human absence, maintaining its ongoing, familiar rhythms.
Second Movement: “If Birds should build as early”
If Birds should build as early And Bees as bustling go – One might depart at option From enterprise below!
Continuing the conditional thought, the speaker observes that birds will still construct nests early in the day. Bees will continue their energetic gathering tasks. Nature’s industrious activity persists without pause, demonstrating that life’s fundamental forces carry on seamlessly even after an individual’s physical life has ended.
Because natural activity persists so reliably, departing from earthly work becomes a manageable choice. The word “enterprise” summarizes all human endeavor. The speaker recognizes that any one individual’s involvement is not required to sustain the world’s grand design, making personal departure feel far less disruptive or alarming.
Third Movement: “’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand”
‘Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie – That Commerce will continue – And Trades as briskly fly –
Moving into the third movement, the speaker shifts focus from natural phenomena to human society. It is comforting to realize that financial institutions remain stable. While humans lie beneath the flowers, economic markets and business transactions proceed with their customary energy and speed across the world.
The contrast between lying with flowers and active trade highlights human transience. Society’s institutions outlasts individual lives. The speaker gains comfort from this stability, recognizing that human civilization maintains its energetic flow and enterprise long after any single participant has departed from the physical world.
Fourth Movement: “It makes the parting tranquil”
It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene – That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!
In the final lines, the speaker highlights the soothing effect of this ongoing activity. Knowing that lively individuals continue to manage social and commercial affairs brings peace. The departure becomes quiet and smooth because the overall societal picture remains well-ordered, active, and thoroughly pleasing.
This assurance helps maintain inner stillness during life’s final transition. As Paramahansa Yogananda explains, an individual grounded in inner peace remains radiantly serene regardless of life’s shifting circumstances. He has colorfully described that attitude as standing “unshaken midst the crash of breaking worlds.” This speaker maintains this calm state while recognizing that earthly existence will flourish continuously.
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 “Taken from – men this morning”
Emily Dickinson’s “Taken from – men this morning” dramatizes the soul’s transition from earthly life to a metaphysical kingdom, where the departed assume exalted, courtly roles.
Introduction and Text of “Taken from – men this morning”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “Taken from – men this morning” narrates the sudden removal of a young girl from the human realm, portraying death not as an end but as a grand procession escorted by divine beings. In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the poet’s intuitive grasp of the soul’s immortality, a theme central to this work.
Taken from – men this morning
Taken from men – this morning – Carried by men today – Met by the Gods with banners – Who marshalled her away –
One little maid – from playmates – One little mind from school – There must be guests in Eden – All the rooms are full –
Far – as the East from Even – Dim – as the border star – Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms Our departed are.
Commentary on “Taken from – men this morning”
The speaker presents death as a ceremonial transition, where mortal hands relinquish the body to divine escorts who lead the soul onward.
First Stanza: “Taken from – men this morning”
Taken from men – this morning – Carried by men today – Met by the Gods with banners – Who marshalled her away –
In the first stanza, the speaker establishes a stark contrast between human agency and divine intervention. The repetition of “men” in the opening two lines emphasizes the physical, earthly handling of the deceased: taken and carried by human hands on the same morning. This literal action suggests the funeral procession, where mourners bear the body to its final resting place in the grave.
The phrase “this morning” imparts a sense of immediacy and suddenness, as if the transition occurred without warning, leaving the living to grapple with the swiftness of loss.
However, the tone shifts dramatically in the third line with the introduction of “the Gods with banners.” Here, the speaker introduces a mythic or metaphysical dimension, where divine beings arrive to claim the soul. The image of “banners” evokes a triumphant procession, not a somber burial.
The “Gods” do not come in mourning but in celebration, as if welcoming an honored guest into a higher realm. This portrayal aligns with the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda, who explains that death is “temporary emancipation,” given when karma determines that the present body has served its purpose.
The verb “marshalled” further reinforces this sense of order and purpose. The “Gods” do not merely collect the soul; they escort it with dignity and direction, guiding it toward its current earned destination. The speaker thus reframes death not as a tragic cessation but as a dignified passage, where the soul is received by celestial hosts.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the poet’s employment of riddling imagery to veil profound spiritual truths, inviting readers to contemplate the mystery of what lies beyond the veil.
This stanza also subtly challenges conventional mourning practices. By depicting the “Gods” as the true escorts, the speaker implies that human grief, while natural, may be misplaced. The departed are not lost but are being led to a grander existence.
Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that when a dear one dies, instead of grieving unreasonably, one should realize that he has gone on to a higher plane at the will of God, and rejoice that he is free. The speaker’s vision thus offers comfort, not through denial of loss, but through a reimagining of death as a glorious transition.
The brevity of the lines, with their alternating meter, creates a rhythmic cadence that mimics the steady march of a procession. The short, clipped phrases—”Taken from men,” “Carried by men,” “Met by the Gods”—build a sense of movement, as if the reader is witnessing the soul’s journey in real time. This structural choice enhances the poem’s dramatic effect, drawing the reader into the scene of departure and divine welcome.
Second Stanza: “One little maid – from playmates”
One little maid – from playmates – One little mind from school – There must be guests in Eden – All the rooms are full –
The second stanza narrows the focus to the identity of the departed: “One little maid” and “One little mind.” The repetition of “One” underscores the singularity and preciousness of this young life.
The speaker emphasizes the girl’s youth by referencing her “playmates” and “school,” evoking images of childhood innocence and the abrupt interruption of daily life. The phrase “from playmates” suggests a sudden separation from the joys and companionship of youth, while “from school” implies an early departure from the realm of learning and growth.
Yet, the speaker quickly pivots to a broader, more mystical assertion: “There must be guests in Eden – / All the rooms are full –.” Here, Eden is not depicted as a sparse or exclusive paradise but as a bustling, welcoming place, already filled with departed souls.
The image of “rooms” full of guests suggests a communal afterlife, where the departed are not isolated but are part of a vast, vibrant community. This vision resonates with Paramahansa Yogananda’s description of the astral world, where souls enjoy a freedom such as they never knew during their earthly life.
The phrase “All the rooms are full” also carries a note of gentle irony. On the one hand, it suggests that Eden is so populous that there is barely room for another guest. On the other hand, it implies that the arrival of each new soul is anticipated and welcomed, as if the house of eternity is always ready to receive its next inhabitant. The speaker’s tone is not one of alarm but of quiet assurance, as if the fullness of Eden is a natural and comforting state.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the poet’s use of domestic imagery—houses, rooms, gardens—to convey metaphysical concepts. Here, Eden becomes a grand guesthouse, where the departed are honored visitors. This metaphor makes the abstract notion of the afterlife more tangible and relatable, especially for readers who may find comfort in the idea of a welcoming, populated heaven.
The stanza’s structure, with its alternating lines of tetrameter and trimeter, maintains the rhythmic momentum established in the first stanza. The short lines create a sense of intimacy, as if the speaker is confiding a secret truth about the nature of death and the afterlife. The near rime between “school” and “full” provides a subtle sonic link, reinforcing the connection between the girl’s earthly life and her new, eternal home.
Third Stanza: “Far – as the East from Even”
Far – as the East from Even – Dim – as the border star – Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms Our departed are.
In the final stanza, the speaker shifts to a more abstract, cosmic perspective, describing the distance and mystery of the departed realm. The simile “Far – as the East from Even –” evokes an immense, almost unbridgeable gulf between the world of the living and the world of the dead.
The East, symbolizing dawn and beginnings, stands in stark contrast to Even (evening), representing closure and endings. This spatial metaphor suggests that the departed have moved beyond the cycle of day and night, into a timeless realm where such distinctions no longer apply.
The phrase “Dim – as the border star –” further emphasizes the elusive nature of this realm. The “border star” refers to a star on the edge of visibility, a faint light that marks the boundary between the known and the unknown.
This image captures the speaker’s acknowledgment that the afterlife remains partially veiled from human perception, accessible only through intuition and contemplative musing.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the poet’s employment of such liminal imagery to convey the mystery of spiritual truths that lie just beyond the reach of ordinary understanding.
Yet, despite this distance and dimness, the speaker offers a striking vision of the departed: “Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms / Our departed are.” The word “Courtiers” suggests that the dead assume roles of honor and service in their new existence, attending to the divine in celestial kingdoms.
The adjective “quaint” adds a touch of charm and antiquity, as if the departed have become part of a timeless, elegant order. This portrayal aligns with Paramahansa Yogananda’s teaching that souls in the astral region are clothed in gossamer light, free from the burdens of the physical body.
The speaker’s use of “Kingdoms” (plural) suggests a multiplicity of divine realms, each with its own court and order. This vision resonates with yogic teachings that describe the astral world as a land to which souls go at death, where they enjoy freedom such as they never knew during their earthly life.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that in the Lord’s dream astral world, souls carry no frail, heavy frames that collide with other crude solids and break; after all, light, even in the material realm, remains indestructible.
The final two lines bring the poem to a close with a gentle, almost matter-of-fact assertion: “Our departed are.” The speaker does not speculate or plead; she simply states the truth as she intuits it.
The departed are not gone; they are present, alive, and active in their own realm. This assertion offers a profound comfort to the bereaved, suggesting that death is not a separation but a transformation, where loved ones continue to exist in a higher, more vibrant state.
The stanza’s structure, with its compact lines and rime between “star” and “are,” creates a sense of closure and resolution. The short, declarative phrases mirror the speaker’s confidence in her vision, as if she has peered beyond the veil and returned with a message of hope and assurance.
The poem thus ends not with a question or a lament, but with a quiet affirmation of the soul’s immortality and the enduring presence of the departed. Thus the speaker’s complete and abiding faith and assured confidence are clearly unveiled.
Those acid tears have eaten away the last ounce of flesh from that ample carcass, and the autumn rains have washed the skeleton over the rocks of her memory where those bones lie bleaching in the sun of her returning smile.
That eyeless skull speaks the truth, not like his blue liars of June that promised to light the way to love.
That lipless mouth speaks the truth, not like his flesh-rimmed hole that spewed poisoned honey.
Those fleshless arms speak the truth, not like that soft, warm circle that held her against that bloodless heart.
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