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 “There’s something quieter than sleep”
Emily Dickinson’s “There’s something quieter than sleep” dramatizes the speaker’s reverence for the mystery of death, portraying it as a sacred and nearly mystical transition beyond earthly experience.
Introduction and Text of “There’s something quieter than sleep”
Emily Dickinson’s “There’s something quieter than sleep” features four minimalist quatrains that progress from observation to meditation. The speaker contemplates the stillness surrounding death, yet she approaches the subject delicately, refusing crude or noisy emotional excess.
Dickinson’s characteristic dashes and slant rimes contribute to the hushed atmosphere, while the speaker’s use of euphemism reveals both awe and uncertainty before the soul’s departure from its physical encasement.
The poem’s spiritual atmosphere recalls Paramahansa Yogananda’s teaching that death is merely “a sleep of forgetfulness” before the soul awakens again in divine consciousness.
There’s something quieter than sleep
There’s something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast – And will not tell its name.
Some touch it, and some kiss it– Some chafe its idle hand – It has a simple gravity I do not understand!
I would not weep if I were they – How rude in one to sob! Might scare the quiet fairy Back to her native wood!
While simple–hearted neighbors Chat of the “Early dead” – We – prone to periphrasis, Remark that Birds have fled!
Commentary on “There’s something quieter than sleep”
The speaker contemplates death as a solemn but peaceful mystery whose stillness transcends ordinary sleep and earthly sorrow.
Stanza 1: Deeper Than Sleep
There’s something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast – And will not tell its name.
The speaker opens by comparing death to sleep, yet she quickly insists that death possesses an even greater silence. The “inner room” suggests both a literal chamber where the deceased lies and the inward spiritual realm where the soul retreats after leaving the body.
By refusing to name the condition directly, the speaker creates an atmosphere of reverent uncertainty, as though ordinary language cannot fully contain the mystery before her.
The “sprig upon its breast” likely refers to a funeral flower or symbolic greenery placed upon the body. Such imagery quietly evokes immortality because evergreen branches traditionally symbolize eternal life.
Paramahansa Yogananda frequently taught that the soul remains untouched by bodily death, affirming that spirit “cannot die because it was never born.” The speaker appears instinctively aware that what lies in the room is not annihilation but transition.
Stanza 2: What Some Do
Some touch it, and some kiss it– Some chafe its idle hand – It has a simple gravity I do not understand!
The speaker now observes the behavior of mourners gathered around the deceased. Some touch the body tenderly, while others attempt to warm the “idle hand,” as though reluctant to accept the final stillness. Their gestures reveal humanity’s instinctive resistance to separation and mortality.
Yet the speaker remains fascinated less by grief than by the strange dignity surrounding the dead.
The phrase “simple gravity” conveys both physical stillness and spiritual weight. The body no longer participates in earthly activity, yet it seems surrounded by a quiet authority the speaker cannot explain.
Dickinson’s speakers often encounter realities that intuition senses more deeply than reason can analyze, and here her speaker admits openly that death possesses meanings beyond intellectual understanding. The stanza also reveals the speaker’s restraint.
Rather than indulging in emotional display, she studies the scene with contemplative wonder. That attitude resembles Dickinson’s many poetic riddles, in which truth emerges indirectly through symbol, suggestion, and silence rather than declaration.
Stanza 3: Shy Fairies
I would not weep if I were they – How rude in one to sob! Might scare the quiet fairy Back to her native wood!
The speaker gently criticizes loud mourning, suggesting that sobbing is almost discourteous in the presence of death’s delicate mystery. Her use of the term “quiet fairy” transforms death into a shy spiritual visitor rather than a terrifying destroyer. The fairy imagery softens the scene and presents death as something ethereal, elusive, and perhaps even benevolent.
By imagining that noisy grief could frighten the fairy away, the speaker implies that death deserves calm reverence instead of emotional chaos. The image resembles ancient folklore in which supernatural beings vanish when approached too aggressively. Dickinson’s speaker thus elevates death into a sacred event requiring inward stillness.
The stanza also reflects the speaker’s intuition that the soul belongs ultimately to another realm, the “native wood.” The earthly body merely hosts the spirit temporarily before it returns to its true home.
uch an idea harmonizes with Yogananda’s teaching that the soul journeys through many states of existence while remaining eternally connected to Divine Spirit.
Stanza 4: Euphemism and Evasion
While simple–hearted neighbors Chat of the “Early dead” – We – prone to periphrasis, Remark that Birds have fled!
In the final stanza, the speaker contrasts ordinary language with poetic circumlocution. The “simple-hearted neighbors” speak plainly of the “Early dead,” employing conventional social terminology without reflection. The speaker, however, admits that “we” prefer “periphrasis,” or indirect expression.
Instead of saying someone has died, the speaker remarks that “Birds have fled.” The bird symbolizes the departing soul escaping the confinement of the physical encasement.
Dickinson often employed birds as emblems of transcendence, freedom, and spiritual aspiration. Here the image beautifully transforms death from grim cessation into graceful departure.
The stanza closes the poem on a note of mystery rather than despair. The speaker never claims complete knowledge regarding death, but she senses that the soul’s leaving resembles flight more than extinction.
Like many Dickinson speakers, this speaker balances uncertainty with spiritual intuition, allowing poetry itself to gesture toward ineffable truths, which ordinary speech cannot fully express.
Image: Percy Bysshe Shelley – Amelia Curran 1819 – National Portrait Gallery, London
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “The Sensitive Plant”
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “The Sensitive Plant” features a poetic drama of an Eden-like garden with the mimosa plant and a Mother-Nature-like personification, a presence that tends the garden. After the drama plays out, the speaker engages in a philosophical musing on the meaning of life and death.
Introduction with Text of “The Sensitive Plant”
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “The Sensitive Plant” plays out in three numbered parts and a conclusion.
Part 1 yields a whopping 28 stanzas: 26 quatrains and 2 cinquains); Part 2 contains 15 quatrains; Part 3 again another whopping 27 quatrains and one cinquain; the Conclusion plays out with only 6 quatrains.
The piece is a rather long 311-line poem with its 74 quatrains, each of which consists of two riming couplets, and three cinquains, each featuring a riming couplet and a riming tercet.
Shelley’s philosophical bent is on full display in this piece. While it portends to describe the mimosa plant, whose leaves will move in response to touch, it also offers a statement about humankind by comparison.
The Sensitive Plant
Part 1
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness;
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense;
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare:
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue,
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flow’rets which, drooping as day drooped too, Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.
And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant’s awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it),
When Heaven’s blithe winds had unfolded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun;
For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere.
But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver,—
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the Beautiful!
The light winds which from unsustaining wings Shed the music of many murmurings; The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar;
The plumed insects swift and free, Like golden boats on a sunny sea, Laden with light and odour, which pass Over the gleam of the living grass;
The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, Then wander like spirits among the spheres, Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears;
The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea o’er the warm earth glide, In which every sound, and odour, and beam, Move, as reeds in a single stream;
Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky.
And when evening descended from Heaven above, And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep,
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound; Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness;
(Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, And snatches of its Elysian chant Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant);—
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Upgathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of Night.
Part 2
There was a Power in this sweet place, An Eve in this Eden; a ruling Grace Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, Was as God is to the starry scheme.
A Lady, the wonder of her kind, Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean
Tended the garden from morn to even: And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, Like the lamps of the air when Night walks forth, Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth!
She had no companion of mortal race, But her tremulous breath and her flushing face Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes, That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise:
As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake, As if yet around her he lingering were, Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her.
Her step seemed to pity the grass it pressed; You might hear by the heaving of her breast, That the coming and going of the wind Brought pleasure there and left passion behind.
And wherever her aery footstep trod, Her trailing hair from the grassy sod Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, Like a sunny storm o’er the dark green deep.
I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; I doubt not they felt the spirit that came From her glowing fingers through all their frame.
She sprinkled bright water from the stream On those that were faint with the sunny beam; And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers.
She lifted their heads with her tender hands, And sustained them with rods and osier-bands; If the flowers had been her own infants, she Could never have nursed them more tenderly.
And all killing insects and gnawing worms, And things of obscene and unlovely forms, She bore, in a basket of Indian woof, Into the rough woods far aloof,—
In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers full, The freshest her gentle hands could pull For the poor banished insects, whose intent, Although they did ill, was innocent.
But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris Whose path is the lightning’s, and soft moths that kiss The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be.
And many an antenatal tomb, Where butterflies dream of the life to come, She left clinging round the smooth and dark Edge of the odorous cedar bark.
This fairest creature from earliest Spring Thus moved through the garden ministering All the sweet season of summer tide, And ere the first leaf looked brown—she died!
Part 3
Three days the flowers of the garden fair, Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius.
And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant Felt the sound of the funeral chant, And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low;
The weary sound and the heavy breath, And the silent motions of passing death, And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank;
The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass; From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan.
The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, Like the corpse of her who had been its soul, Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap To make men tremble who never weep.
Swift Summer into the Autumn flowed, And frost in the mist of the morning rode, Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, Mocking the spoil of the secret night.
The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, Paved the turf and the moss below. The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, Like the head and the skin of a dying man.
And Indian plants, of scent and hue The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, Leaf by leaf, day after day, Were massed into the common clay.
And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red, And white with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed; Their whistling noise made the birds aghast.
And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, Till they clung round many a sweet flower’s stem, Which rotted into the earth with them.
The water-blooms under the rivulet Fell from the stalks on which they were set; And the eddies drove them here and there, As the winds did those of the upper air.
Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks Were bent and tangled across the walks; And the leafless network of parasite bowers Massed into ruin; and all sweet flowers.
Between the time of the wind and the snow All loathliest weeds began to grow, Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck, Like the water-snake’s belly and the toad’s back.
And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, Stretched out its long and hollow shank, And stifled the air till the dead wind stank.
And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, Livid, and starred with a lurid dew.
And agarics, and fungi, with mildew and mould Started like mist from the wet ground cold; Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead With a spirit of growth had been animated!
Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, Made the running rivulet thick and dumb, And at its outlet flags huge as stakes Dammed it up with roots knotted like water-snakes.
And hour by hour, when the air was still, The vapours arose which have strength to kill; At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, At night they were darkness no star could melt.
And unctuous meteors from spray to spray Crept and flitted in broad noonday Unseen; every branch on which they alit By a venomous blight was burned and bit.
The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, Wept, and the tears within each lid Of its folded leaves, which together grew, Were changed to a blight of frozen glue.
For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn; The sap shrank to the root through every pore As blood to a heart that will beat no more.
For Winter came: the wind was his whip: One choppy finger was on his lip: He had torn the cataracts from the hills And they clanked at his girdle like manacles;
His breath was a chain which without a sound The earth, and the air, and the water bound; He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone.
Then the weeds which were forms of living death Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. Their decay and sudden flight from frost Was but like the vanishing of a ghost!
And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant The moles and the dormice died for want: The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air And were caught in the branches naked and bare.
First there came down a thawing rain And its dull drops froze on the boughs again; Then there steamed up a freezing dew Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew;
And a northern whirlwind, wandering about Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy, and stiff, And snapped them off with his rigid griff.
When Winter had gone and Spring came back The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels, Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels.
Conclusion
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that Which within its boughs like a Spirit sat, Ere its outward form had known decay, Now felt this change, I cannot say.
Whether that Lady’s gentle mind, No longer with the form combined Which scattered love, as stars do light, Found sadness, where it left delight,
I dare not guess; but in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife, Where nothing is, but all things seem, And we the shadows of the dream,
It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.
That garden sweet, that lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never passed away: ’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.
For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death nor change: their might Exceeds our organs, which endure No light, being themselves obscure.
Parts 1–3 dramatize spring/summer growth in a garden and fall/winter death and decay. In the conclusion, the speaker offers his philosophical musing on the meaning of it all.
Part 1: Observing a Unique Plant
In Part 1 of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s long piece, the speaker makes the observation that the mimosa plant is the only one that “tremble[s]” when touched.
He adds the claim that when touched, the plant not only trembled, but it also “panted with bliss.” He calls the “Sensitive Plant” companionless, likely because it is the only plant that produces that movement upon being touched.
The speaker goes through all manner of machinations to imbue the plant with favorable yet ultimately human qualities.
An example is in the 26th stanza when the speaker remarks that the plant actually has “consciousness”—not a new idea entirely but one seldom observed in intellectual discourse.
Part 2: The Ministering Lady
In Part 2 of Shelley’s long drama, the speaker introduces the presence of “A Lady,” who tends the garden.
This feminine presence is also referred to as “a Power” and an “Eve in this Eden,” whose relationship with the inmates of the garden resembles that of “God [ ] to the starry scheme.”
While this “Lady” functions as Mother Nature in many ways with her caring for the plants, her own nature departs markedly from Mother Nature, for as summer moves into autumn, the Lady dies.
Mother Nature does not die; she continues to minister through all seasons and all weather conditions. Indeed, Mother Nature is simply a metaphoric mother aspect of the one father God, Who is the Creator of all things.
Nevertheless, the “Lady,” who ministers in Shelley’s edenic piece, remains a Mother-Nature-like presence; she is the personification of the force that maintains the plants and other garden creations during their heyday of spring and summer.
Thus, in this piece, after the Lady dies, autumn brings on what that season always fetches—death and decay.
Without the presence of this nurturing Lady, a sinister force takes hold and as always happens during the cooling of the weather, the plant kingdom experiences death or dormancy until the reawakening the next spring.
Part 3: The Lady’s Death Heralds Autumn/Winter
Part 3 features the continued act of dying and decaying of the plants in the garden. After a three-day respite, the on-set of autumn becomes apparent to the “Sensitive Plant,” which “Felt the sound of the funeral chant.”
The speaker reports the mourning of the garden members for the late Lady; her passing has brought about great sorrow in the garden.
Images of darkness and dread engulf the atmosphere as the Lady’s dead presence is laid to rest: “And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, / Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank.”
The fourth quatrain of Part 3 exemplifies the mood heralded by the passing of the Lady: the grass is dark; the flowers yielded tears and sighs that resulted in a “mournful tone,” and the pines sent out many groans.
The speaker then turns the seasonal onset into a drama with images that describe the result from death of the mother-like presence.
In the final cinquain, the onset of autumn is revealed: the garden is now “cold and foul” wherein it once was “fair.” It resembles a corpse, having lost its “soul.” It becomes so grievous as to make men tremble.
Such a change in the countenance of the garden creatures was enough to affect even the most guarded manly qualities of those men who “never weep,” but yet now they “tremble” at the onslaught of the deathly season.
The remaining quatrains continue to provoke sorrow and loss with such couplets as “Swift Summer into the Autumn flowed, / And frost in the mist of the morning rode” and “Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks / Were bent and tangled across the walks.”
And the “Sensitive Plant” itself suffered the changing conditions: it “wept” and the tears caused its “folded leaves” to turn into “a blight of frozen glue.”
Then winter arrives: “For Winter came: the wind was his whip: / One choppy finger was on his lip.” And winter continues to perform his duties of transforming all living things to brown, stiff, still models of their former selves.
The speaker describes the “weeds” as being “forms of living death” and as those forms flee from the frost, their “decay” is likened to the “vanishing of a ghost!”
Again, the speaker returns to the “Sensitive Plant” to describe how under the plant’s roots “mold and dormice died for want.” And birds simply stiffen and drop from the sky, their lifeless bodies “caught in the branches naked and bare.”
After a “thawing rain,” whose “dull drops” immediately froze in the trees, a freezing dew “steamed up” which continued the freeze.
The speaker then describes this severe winter with its “northern whirlwind” as a “wolf” that has sniffed out “a dead child.” That wind shook the frozen tree limb so hard they snapped.
Then suddenly, winter is gone and spring is returning, but the Sensitive Plant is now a “leafless wreck.”
However, other woodland creatures, including “the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels,” “rose like the dead from their ruined charnels.”
Thus, the speaker has ended his foray into reimagining the changes involved in seasonal moving from spring/summer with its fecund growth and beauty to fall/winter with its death and decay.
Conclusion: A Philosophical Musing
The speaker now engages in a philosophical discourse which includes his musing on his description of the natural occurrence and what it all means.
He first confesses that he does not know how the “Sensitive Plant” might have felt about “this change.”
Furthermore, he cannot hazard a guess as to how the “Lady” felt about the situation.
He wonders if she felt sadness. And though he dares not guess how the “Sensitive Plant” and the “Lady” felt, he is now ready to offer his own thoughts on the issue of life and death.
He declares that this life is filled with “error, ignorance, and strife,” and “we” (humanity) seem to be little more than the “shadows of a dream.”
Thus, he has determined what he calls a “modest creed” is nevertheless pleasant to consider that “death” is nothing more than a “mockery.”
In fact, it is all a mockery. He then states that all of the sweetness and beauty contained within the Edenic garden, which he has so thoroughly described, remain, that is, those etheric qualities did not and do not change.
He says, “’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.”
He then declares that love, beauty, and delight do not die or change. Those qualities, being ineffable, possess a power (“might”) that surpasses the human ability to comprehend.
Our human capacity—presented here by “our organs”—remains in darkness for those “organs” “endure / No light, being themselves obscure.”
The speaker is implying that the human heart and mind are, in fact, capable of enduring light.
But because of a willful blindness, many remain in a state of moribund, abject mental and spiritual poverty—where light cannot penetrate until a change of heart and mind is effected.
Note: Use of “Rime” vs “Rhyme”
Dr. Samuel Johnson introduced the form “rhyme” into English in the 18th century, mistakenly thinking that the term was a Greek derivative of “rythmos.”
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 “Could live – did live”
Emily Dickinson’s speaker in “Could live – did live” is speculating about the possible inner motivation that urged on the heart of an individual acquaintance who has now died. He did live, she insists, but what drove him?—This man, who seems to have maintained such an even-minded temperament.
Introduction and Text of “Could live – did live”
In Emily Dickinson’s “Could live – did live,” the speaker is speculating about the inner life of an individual who has died. Because she refers to the deceased as “he” and “his” in the lines, “Through faith in one he met not, / To introduce his soul,” it is safe to assume that the individual is a man or boy—more likely a man because of the nature of the information offered by the speaker.
The dead man has experienced enough of life that the speaker, who has observed at least periodically the man living his life, has acquired and retained enough information to make certain assumptions about how he thought and felt and what his inclinations might have been.
As Dickinson is wont to do, in this poem, the poet is playing with English grammar. She is employing the conditional mood of verbs. In the opening two lines, she juxtaposes the conditional mood use with the indicative mood emphatic; thus, she moves from “could live” to “did live.”
That the poet added her own emphasis to the emphatic “did” further highlights her play on the language. In modern print, the emphasis is shown by italicizing—”did“—while in her handwriting, Dickinson shows that emphasis by underlining–”did.”
Could live – did live
Could live – did live – Could die – did die – Could smile upon the whole Through faith in one he met not, To introduce his soul.
Could go from scene familiar To an untraversed spot – Could contemplate the journey With unpuzzled heart –
Such trust had one among us, Among us not today – We who saw the launching Never sailed the Bay!
Commentary on “Could live – did live”
The speaker in this Dickinson gem is offering a somewhat clipped observation about the possible inner life of an individual male acquaintance who has died. She has observed at least enough of the individual’s comings and going that she remains capable of forming an opinion about him.
Interestingly, what the speaker claims about the possible inner life of another more than likely remains even more on target about her own station in life.
First Stanza: Conditional Speculation
Could live – did live – Could die – did die – Could smile upon the whole Through faith in one he met not, To introduce his soul.
The speaker begins by contrasting the difference between the conditional and the indicative moods. She states elliptically that someone had been able to live —”could”—but then adds immediately that he did, in fact, live.
The first proposition is stated with the conditional mood auxiliary verb “could,” and the second half of her statement features the emphatic form “did” of the indicative mood “live.”
In the second line, she repeats the conditional vs indicative moods again with the opposite of “live.” Thus she is reporting that someone who could have lived, did, in fact, live, and then this same individual could have died—because he lived, of course—and he, in fact, “did die.”
By playing with the grammar of the language, the speaker indicates that her own solemn mood may be moving her to speculate and to postpone her grieving for this individual. But then she launches another conditional mood “could smile,” as she reports the level of the deceased’s faith.
The deceased was able to smile upon the whole bewildering commotion of life and death likely remaining quite neutral about any deep meaning those puzzling acts might hold; he, at least, possessed some level of faith to be able to hold such a smile, and his soul thereby has remained an entity without dedication to a higher consciousness. The speaker, however, is merely reporting, not judging.
Second Stanza: Remaining Conditional
Could go from scene familiar To an untraversed spot – Could contemplate the journey With unpuzzled heart –
Returning again to the conditional mood, the speaker continues to report on the deceased’s ability to face the various vicissitudes of life. His temperamental state seems to have remained somewhat even-minded whether he was moving in “familiar” territory or venturing out to parts unknown.
The speaker asserts that the deceased “could go” and was also able to “contemplate” his travels without his “heart” becoming puzzled, or likely even frazzled. The speaker is offering only her interpretation of how the deceased felt; thus the continued employment of the conditional mood remains operative and most appropriate.
While her uncertainly is not paramount, she, nevertheless, does not wish to sound as though she can make any final pronouncement about how the deceased went about his life and his days upon planet Earth.
She knows that too deep a speculation would ultimately amount to judging. She does imply that she likely would not retain such an even-minded ability throughout her puzzling sojourn through life and death.
Third Stanza: Trust and Faith in Life’s Inner Turmoil
Such trust had one among us, Among us not today – We who saw the launching Never sailed the Bay!
The speaker finalizes her speculative evaluation of the deceased’s inner mental/heartfelt state by asserting that his trust, which did not rise to level of faith, was as she has thus far described. He was “among us,” and today he is no longer “among us.”
The speaker then concludes by remarking that although “we,” the living, have been able to observe the manner in which the deceased passed his days, we cannot know for certain how his experience actually shaped and formed his deep heart’s core and ultimate mental state.
While we may have observed, an observation is not the actual experience. The deceased is the only one who has “sailed the Bay”; his friends, family, and acquaintances merely caught certain glimpses of his “launching.” They remain in state of “should, would, could” as far as the deceased’s inner life is concerned.
The speaker offers an observation, however, that may be quite accurate, but in the long run, the accuracy is in her own self-revelation, not necessarily in that of the target of her report.
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 “A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!” dramatizes the intensity with which an individual may view the simple act of the opening of a day. She concludes by revealing the superior power of the soul in overcoming all adversity.
Introduction and Text of “A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!”
The speaker of Emily Dickinson’s “A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!” opens with an effusion, calling for assistance—another day is here and dire need, calamity, and trials and tribulations are on the horizon. This speaker has opened her heart and mind to the material level of reality and is reacting to the cant and cacophony that that level brings the sensitive individual.
After offering a broad scope for consideration of national and worldly events, the speaker concludes with the same heartfelt level of awareness that leads the speaker and her environment of sensitivities back to her garden of soul reality. The soul triumphs despite upsetting—even disastrous—worldly or national events. The soul remains able to “stand unshaken amid the crash of breaking worlds.”
A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!
A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers, oh Passer by! From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory! From marshallings as simple The flags of nations swang. Steady — my soul: What issues Upon thine arrow hang!
Commentary on “A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!”
The speaker offers a contrasting movement from effusion at possible impending calamity to revelation of steadfast, complete endurance in the face of all chaos and consternation.
First Movement: A Cry of Consternation
A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers, oh Passer by!
The speaker stations herself in an etherial location from which she can contemplate and consider the vicissitudes of life. Upon awakening to the breaking of “Another Day!,” she offers a prayerful command to one who “[p]ass[es] by” her vision, imploring that individual for “Prayers.”
At this point, the speaker has offered only a nebulous environment from which she can view activities, contemplate events, and make judgments about them. Little can be fathomed from such an effusive outcry, but she has attracted attention for her discourse.
The speaker’s opening cry that another day has opened, and then her subsequent cry for “Help! Help!” alerts those around her that all is not well, or at least, not likely to remain so for long.
Thus something must be out of order, or some circumstance which eludes her control prompts her to command assistance—all for the simple act of another day arriving. At first blush, such drama may seem melodramatic, but as the speaker continues, all events, thoughts, and feelings take their appropriate place upon the horizon.
Second Movement: The Potential for Winning
From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory!
The speaker continues to remain somewhat vague, yet at the same time she refers to the planet upon which she takes her breaths and pulses her blood. Calling Earth a “common ball,” she adds that despite her opening call for help, such a place may offer the scope and time allotment for great winning.
The “Victory” upon which the speaker may stand remains at this point a forethought, perhaps even an illusion. She has not yet revealed any specific reason for her opening effusive cry or for implying that some victorious event may occur.
As she continues to riddle and minimize, she yet opens her toolkit of ideas, images, and emotions to a vast array of pairs of opposites, such as the trope of winning and losing, and then to opening and closing, weakness and strength, close and far, life and death.
Third Movement: A Pride of Being
From marshallings as simple The flags of nations swang.
The speaker then alludes to national pride—the allowing to swing the banners of nations; thus she indicates that the country has accrued some level of success in some undertaking. Such prideful acts could include war, treaties with potential enemies, or creating a national harmony that permits citizens to crave out better, more prosperous lives.
The speaker still has not delineated any specifics, for her purpose remains to make a general statement, a simple remark in passing regarding the nature of reality and how actions and events accrue to yield any given result. She has, thus far, opened the day with a concerning cry but then yielded to the possibility of victory—which at the same time yields the possibility of utter failure.
Now by referring to “flags,” the speaker has opened her discourse to the likelihood that she wishes to make a generalized statement about events that in no way remain in the private or personal sphere of reality.
The speaker now has only one way to continue this observation—she must bring events into her own sphere, else she will have to abandon any hope making a sensible observation.
Fourth Movement: The Soul’s Victory
Steady — my soul: What issues Upon thine arrow hang!
The speaker then abruptly addresses her own soul, admonishing it to be “Steady.” She has touched, even if lightly, on activities, events, and possibilities at worldly and national levels. She has implied that these activities, events, and possibilities may have a detrimental effect on her as an individual.
Such detriment would rattle the hearts and minds of any individual, perhaps even to soul level. Thus the speaker now closes her investigation on those outside possibilities, concentrates on the purely personal, and discovers that she must calm her heart and mind in order for her soul to become once again “Steady.”
The speaker’s final effusion is the simple remark that profundity clings to the sharp point of soul clarity. Metaphorically likening the soul to an “arrow” allows her to demonstrate that the soul is the only weapon that can discharge and conquer the “issues” that fluster, confuses, and cause pain and anguish in the hearts and minds of individuals.
Obsolete Usage: “Swang”
The term “swang” is the obsolete irregular simple past tense form of “swing,” which apparently was still in use in the Dickinsonian century; current usage requires “swung,” the same form as the past participle “swung.” Similar verb forms such as “sting,” “sling,” and “fling” have all lost their simple past tense form of “stang,” “slang,” and “flang.”
The verb “ring” however retains its irregular simple past tense form of “rang”: “ring, rang, rung” remain the three usages that continue in the current American parlance.
The terms, “ding,” which has a similar meaning to “ring,” and “bring” both have different simple past and participle forms: “ding” follows the regular verb formation by merely adding the suffix “-ed” to the present tense form, while “bring” has the irregular form of “brought” in both simple past and past participle forms.
A close study of the etymology of these terms would reveal the trajectory of those changes, and they would likely be perfectly sensible, even though a mere glance seems that this change in language usage has no rime or reason.
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 like to see it lap the Miles”
Mastercraftsman and talented mystical investigator Emily Dickinson composed several poems that function somewhat like riddles; they do not mention their subject, which can be determined only by correctly interpreting the poetic devices.
Introduction and Text of “I like to see it lap the Miles”
Emily Dickinson composed most of her poems, focusing and delving into profound themes: life, death, the afterlife (immortality), and complex human relationships. However, the reclusive poet also composed a number of poems that show a propensity for pure fun.
These poems may be rightfully called riddles as they only suggest the subject, allowing the reader to suss out what the subject is. “I like to see it lap the Miles” remains one of her most anthologized efforts, which teachers like to use to entice student’s poetic prowess.
I like to see it lap the Miles
I like to see it lap the Miles – And lick the Valleys up – And stop to feed itself at Tanks – And then – prodigious step
Around a Pile of Mountains – And supercilious peer In Shanties – by the sides of Roads – And then a Quarry pare
To fit its Ribs And crawl between Complaining all the while In horrid – hooting stanza – Then chase itself down Hill –
And neigh like Boanerges – Then – punctual as a Star Stop – docile and omnipotent At its own stable door –
Commentary on “I like to see it lap the Miles”
The poem “I like to see it lap the Miles” plays out in four stanzas with the first, second, and fourth containing four lines, and the third five lines. This poem presents a double metaphor making it also a double riddle. Two questions arise regarding its contents: Who (or what) is the actor in the poem? What is the actor doing?
First Stanza: What the Speaker Likes
I like to see it lap the Miles – And lick the Valleys up – And stop to feed itself at Tanks – And then – prodigious step
The first stanza finds the speaker asserting that she likes, “to see it lap the Miles / And lick the Valleys up / And stop to feed itself at Tanks.”
The “it” of this riddle/poem seems to be an animal gulping up water perhaps, and nipping at a salt lick or gobbling food; however, it then does what an animal would never do when it stops to “feed itself at Tanks.”
Second Stanza: First Blush Inaccurate
Around a Pile of Mountains – And supercilious peer In Shanties – by the sides of Roads – And then a Quarry pare
This subject may at first seem like an animal, likely a horse, but it becomes clear that it is not a horse. It has to be a subject more powerful; it has the ability to “step” “Around a Pile of Mountains.”
Third Stanza: What No Animal Can Do
To fit its Ribs And crawl between Complaining all the while In horrid – hooting stanza – Then chase itself down Hill –
In addition to gaining speed around a mountain, this subject can peep into the little “shanties” along the way. Also, this subject can cut out enough room for it to fit the mountain, “To . . . its Ribs.”
Even though the subject itself could not possibly have carved out its own way through the mountain, and it was necessary for some other object to do so, this procedure was previously accomplished, so the speaker leaves it in something of a blur.
This stanza affirms that the subject is not an animal: it makes a noise “in horrid – hooting stanza.” While owls might make hooting sounds, surely no owl could have performed the tasks that this one has already done. Thus horse clearly presents itself as a candidate as a metaphor for something.
Fourth Stanza: Biblical Allusion
And neigh like Boanerges – Then – punctual as a Star Stop – docile and omnipotent At its own stable door –
The final piece of the description shows the subject as it “chase[s] itself down Hill” while it “neigh[s] like Boanerges.” “Boanerges” is a term found in the King James Version of the Holy Bible at Mark 3:17, indicating “sons of thunder,” an appellation Jesus Christ applied to John and James because they so loudly displayed their zeal for evangelizing.
Finally, the subject arrives on time at its destination, heralding the end of this trip. It becomes “docile and omnipotent / At its own stable door.” While the metaphor of a horse continued throughout the description in the poem, readers/listeners will at last understand that the subject is, in fact, a train, which is, of course, not a biological horse but is, indeed, an “iron horse.”
Thus the answers to the beginning questions: (1) it is a train (2) traveling through the countryside, ultimately arriving on time at its appointed destination.
Emily Dickinson composed several poems that are just pure fun; they work similarly to riddles, not mentioning their subject that can be determined only by a correct interpretation of the poetic devices.
Introduction and Text of “It sifts from Leaden Sieves”
It is widely understood that Emily Dickinson fashioned most of her poems to focus on profound themes: life, death, the afterlife (immortality), and complex human relationships.
However, the Amherst recluse also composed a number of poems that show a propensity for pure fun. These poems may be validly called riddles as they describe the subject but allow the reader to ferret out what the subject is.
It sifts from Leaden Sieves
It sifts from Leaden Sieves – It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road –
It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain – Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again –
It reaches to the Fence – It wraps it Rail by Rail Till it is lost in Fleeces – It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack – and Stem – A Summer’s empty Room – Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, Recordless, but for them–
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts As Ankles of a Queen – Then stills its Artisans – like Ghosts – Denying they have been –
Commentary on “It sifts from Leaden Sieves”
This Dickinson poem functions as a riddle and remains on of her most widely anthologized creations. The poem displays in 5 four-line stanzas.
First Stanza: The Opening Metaphor
It sifts from Leaden Sieves – It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road –
The speaker begins by metaphorically describing the item as a material that behaves much as does flour that one would use to bake a cake. The substance that “sifts from Leaden Sieves” is behaving as if a housewife or baker might be doing in sifting flour for baking.
As the housewife sifts the flour, she places it in a bowl to prepare the dough; then she spreads the flour over a countertop or cutting board so she can roll out the dough. However, the poem’s sifted substance does not end up in a bowl, not even in the house at all, but in the woods. As it does so, it fills in the cracks in the road and has the appearance of “Alabaster Wool.”
Second Stanza: A Kitchen Metaphor
It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain – Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again –
Then the kitchen metaphor transforms into a hyperbolic face as the speaker asserts that this substance has piled so high that it creates the illusion that a mountain and the plain that appear level; it is “Unbroken Forehead from the East / Unto the East again.”
Third Stanza: Moving Outdoors
It reaches to the Fence – It wraps it Rail by Rail Till it is lost in Fleeces – It deals Celestial Vail
The speaker then has the substance reaching to the fence where it forms a ring around the rail, making the fence appear to be wearing wedding gear. The speaker describes the fields on which the substance has landed as “Summer’s empty Room”; the fields have been harvested and only stubble is still standing.
Fourth Stanza: A Substance That Seems Ubiquitous
To Stump, and Stack – and Stem – A Summer’s empty Room – Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, Recordless, but for them–
Now the substance fills up the empty field. It become unrecognizable as a field but for the several stalks that still stand up through the white material that has fallen on them like flour over a countertop.
Fifth Stanza: The Sifting Powder Made Plain
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts As Ankles of a Queen – Then stills its Artisans – like Ghosts – Denying they have been –
In the final stanza, the speaker portrays the substance of some lace-like material that might be worn by a queen, but it is adding ruffles to the “Wrists of Posts.” Suddenly, the weather changes, it stops snowing, and it seems that craftsmen suddenly ceased their work.
The scene has been created, and by this time, readers and listeners will be aware that the substance that “sifts from Leaden Sieves” and “powders” the landscape is none other than snow, which the poem/riddle has never named, but only suggested.
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “By such and such an offering” is exploring the nature of duplicity by those who feign elevated status through appropriating experience that they have not in fact endured.
Introduction and Text of “By such and such an offering”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s four-line verse begins mysteriously but then suggests a remarkable indictment of those who feign martyrdom. Those who exaggerate their suffering in life but have little to show for it are often those who put on display their complaints.
The phony religious who amble about with colorless, sad expressions, those who suffer from physical ailments but exaggerate for attention, those who remain boastful of their contributions to society that anyone paying attention will realize are meagre—these supposed “martyrs” remain so only to their own confused thinking.
The speaker is calling attention to such bombastic displays. As the “web of life” is woven, it does remain salient that it “takes all kinds.” This speaker offers no remedy—just an insightful observation that such ilk exists, and perhaps a warning to watch out for them and not be fooled by insincerity and lack of clarity.
By such and such an offering
By such and such an offering To Mr. So and So, The web of life woven – So martyrs albums show!
Commentary on “By such and such an offering”
The speaker is offering an observation of a certain segment of the social order whose exaggerated rhetoric attempts to hoist their pettiness to the exalted status of martyrdom.
First Movement: The Undeclared
By such and such an offering To Mr. So and So,
The speaker begins with two prepositional phrases that point to some activity being directed to an unknown entity: specifically something is being given to someone. The phrases “such and such” and “So and So” indicate that the speaker is not identifying the gift nor is she naming to whom the gift is given.
The speaker does, however, qualify the receiver of the gift as a masculine human being, signaled by “Mr.”; thus, the terms of the phrase “So and So” stand for a name and are capitalized.
The speaker has thus set up a puzzling dynamic by essentially reporting somewhat mysteriously that something was given, or perhaps will be given, to someone (some man). She allows her audience to remain puzzled by not only what the gift may be, or will be, but also by who will be, or has been, the receiver of that gift.
At this point, the speaker has simply claimed that what was given was an “offering.” She does not say that what was given was a “present” or a “gift”; instead she uses the more weighty term “offering,” which differs from other items given through its special status: an offering connotes something given for religious or worship purposes, or some other universally relevant purpose. An ordinary gift is usually something presented to an individual or small group of individuals.
Thus this gift retains a different status from an ordinary gift, in that it must have some purpose other than the mere giving of a gift for Christmas or birthday or other culturally personalized holiday. Thus instead of a personal gift, this offering will retain a wider, more inclusive purpose.
Second Movement: Completed Mystery
The web of life woven – So martyrs albums show!
The speaker then completes the thought begun in the first movement, but she still remains quite mysterious because she does not actually offer a complete sentence or statement. Her musing thus remains fragmented, as if she were merely jotting down a note for later employment in a larger context.
The speaker then makes the lofty claim about life: life’s “web” has been woven. While only life’s Creator can be credited with weaving the “web of life,” the speaker again indicates that she will remain mysterious in her remarks by not elaborating her claim but by diverting the direction of her report to individuals who have experienced extreme suffering perhaps even death (“martyrs”), who then display their suffering through a series of blank pages (“albums”) filled with images from their history.
The speaker has thus suggested her own puzzlement that life can be filled with so many perplexing events. But she seizes upon the one turn of events that has impressed her mightily in likely a negative or perhaps even a humorous way: that the sufferers who offer their oblations at the feet materiality and yet portend to suffer as martyrs nevertheless gather their badges and demonstrate them to an unsuspecting world.
The true martyr to the spiritual cause may be celebrated by others down through the centuries. Their adherence to truth is to be emulated, but it will be hoped that their being martyred unto death may be avoided.
But those who put on display their suffering through flagitiousness or deleterious behavior will be adjudicated duplicitous as they “show” their “albums” instead allowing them to work through the mystery of silent, masterful ascendance.
Thus the vaunted “offering” is revealed as a profligate collection garnered by the supposed “martyrs” and bestowed on “Mr. So and So,” who has remained merely a nebulous, unsuspecting target of the feigning, exaggerating sufferers.
That unknown citizen—representing the conglomerate of the world’s citizens—remains an amorphous being to whom the would-be martyrs may put on display their imperfections and bleared commodities.
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 “Snow flakes”
Emily Dickinson’s speaker in this jaunty little poem dramatizes an effusion of emotion after becoming enthralled by watching the many machinations of snowflakes as they dance their way through the air before landing on their targets of earthly entities.
Introduction and Text of “Snow flakes”
In Thomas Johnson’s The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, the text I use for these commentaries, the poem, “Snow flakes.,” appears to be the only poem with a title. However, one might reasonably argue that the seeming title cannot be considered a true title.
In none of the other poems—1,775 in all—does a title grace and define. That any poet would appear so consistent and then offer such an anomaly should raise the doubt that only one poem out of close to two thousand has a title. There are three reasons for doubting that the poem has a title and therefore realizing that the so-called title functions very differently from most titles.
First, the noun “snowflake” is one word, and Dickinson has clearly written two words, and that act converts the one word to a sentence. A snowflake is a piece of snow that has “flaked off” from a larger entity; thus “snow flakes.” Because of the fact that “Snow flakes.” looks like a sentence, it is wise to think of it as a sentence or first line of the poem, and not a title.
Second, that form of the so-called title itself demonstrates that the title is indeed merely the first line of the poem, “Snow flakes.” The period at the end—along with the fact that there are two words—indicates a sentence.
Emily Dickinson was a voracious reader, and she was well aware that titles contain no end punctuation. And although she did engage in innovative capitalization, punctuation, and techniques employing the use of space and dash, there is no reason to assume that she would title one poem out 1,775, and deliberately make the title look like an ordinary sentence.
Three, by beginning with an act, claiming that “snow flakes,” the speaker is heralding the very active “dance” that she creates as she personifies the snowflakes as ballerinas. Even though Johnson has placed, “Snow flakes.,” in the position which a title would occupy, I suggest that the proper form would simply place the line as the first line of the poem.
I do admit that the hand-written copy of “Snow flakes.” appears to center the line, still the spacing between the line and the rest of the poem is comparable to the remaining lines of the poem.
Riddle Poem? Maybe Not
“Snow flakes” seems to have been intended to function as one of Emily Dickinson’s riddle poems, but it may be that she decided to add the first line because that poem might have remained unintelligible as a riddle. Readers may not be able to understand that this poem is speaking about flakes of snow without the poet offering that first line.
Unlike her obvious riddles that do not name the object such as “It sifts from Leaden Sieves” and “I like to see it lap the Miles,” this one would offer too many other possibilities to function as a workable riddle-poem, thus the addition of the first line, which can be mistaken for a title.
Snow flakes
Snow flakes. I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly I did resign the prig, And ten of my once stately toes Are marshalled for a jig!
Commentary on “Snow flakes”
Observing fakes of snow create in the speaker’s mind a phantasmagoric dance with myriad ballerinas competing for visual attention.
First Movement: Dancing Snow Ballerinas
Snow flakes. I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town,
The speaker begins with the odd claim that snow can be perceived as breaking into little pieces or “flakes”; she likely wants the reader to take the term “flakes” as both a noun and a verb—a pun of sorts.
This kind of function can often be detected in Dickinson’s poems; she quite frequently employs one part of speech to function as another or both, as in “The Soul selects her own Society” where in the lines, “To her divine Majority – Present no more,” the word “Present” functions both as an adjective and a verb in the imperative mood.
The speaker then begins the report of her activity. She is observing flakes of snow falling, likely just outside her window, and she begins to count them. She continues to count the flakes, and suddenly she realizes that they seem to be dancing.
It then occurs to her that they are like ballerinas, so she personifies the flake placing “slippers” on the imagined feet, and she is off to the races! Those ballerinas are performing their dance, as they are leaping and bounding all over town.
Second Movement: Capturing the Scene
And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down.
At this point, watching the dancing snow flakes that have become countless graceful ballerinas in her imaginative mind, she then grabs “a pencil” to take notes on their movements. Of course, she is referring to taking notes for a poem about what she is observing.
She calls the dancers “rebels”; they seem to rebel against any way of describing them. Thought after thought is passing through her mind, and she has to grab that writing instrument and begin to capture some of those quickly passing images.
Poets sometimes feel that a poem writes itself, but only if the poet can capture the words in time, for so often, an image will present itself only to be lost to the next rapidly occurring image.
Most writers keep writing equipment—paper and pen, nowadays computer tablets—in case some graceful ideas clothed in beautiful, meaningful language come dancing across the writer’s mental vision.
Third Movement: Overwhelmed by Jolly Dancers
And then they grew so jolly I did resign the prig,
As the speaker continues to take notes and watch those dancers, they become “so jolly” that she feels that they are becoming downright decadent in their outlandish flurry. Because of this decadence, she finds she has to discontinue this observation; likely she is feeling overwhelmed trying to take account of those millions of dancers.
If one tries to imagine a ballet stage with millions of ballerinas all competing for one’s attention, one gets the idea of how the speaker felt watching and trying to see each dancing snowflake.
Fourth Movement: Itching to Dance
And ten of my once stately toes Are marshalled for a jig!
The priggish or intrusively haughty nature of such a phantasmagoria stops the speaker from her fitful attempt to capture all the machinations of this metaphoric ballet; thus, she lays down her pencil, likely gives a sigh, but then an odd things occurs. She notices that her own toes are hankering to imitate that dance that the speaker has just observed and described.
The speaker’s toes were “once stately,” remaining dignified and stationary in her shoes, but now they are becoming as rebellious as those dancing snow flakes; they want the speaker to get up and engage them in a dance. They want to commit to a “jig,” having been prompted by all those flaking snow ballerinas.
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 “Nobody knows this little Rose”
Emily Dickinson loved flowers, as well as all other creatures of nature. The rose became a symbol for her, signifying beauty and the evanescence of all natural beings. From a lament for a single rose, she begins to muse on the relationship of the Divine to His creation, including her own creations.
Introduction with Text of “Nobody knows this little Rose”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “Nobody knows this little Rose” is bemoaning the sadness that a “little Rose” will surely die without having attracted attention during its sojourn on the earthly plane. Only a bee, a bird, a butterfly, along with a gentle wind and the speaker will likely have even noticed that such a beautiful entity had existed.
In observing that it is quite easy for this little rose to succumb to death, the speaker goes into mourning for that death. Such beauty, the speaker opines, should not be so easily lost but instead should attract the attention it deserves.Perhaps it should even have its stature elevated to a higher plane of being than the mere physical level of being, which it is so easily vanquished.
Nobody knows this little Rose
Nobody knows this little Rose – It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it – Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey – On its breast to lie – Only a Bird will wonder – Only a Breeze will sigh – Ah Little Rose – how easy For such as thee to die!
Commentary on “Nobody knows this little Rose”
The speaker is musing about the death of a small rose. She imagines its family mourning the rose’s absence. The speaker, while musing to herself, incidentally addresses God in the opening movement and then the rose itself in the final movement.
First Movement: Lamentation for the Unknown
Nobody knows this little Rose – It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
The speaker begins her lament by claiming that no one is acquainted with her subject, a simple, small rose. She has plucked this little rose, which apparently was growing in the wild.
The speaker speculates that this little rose might be “a pilgrim” for it was growing away from other flower beds. She then rather casually asks someone, likely God, or Mother Nature about her own act.
Although formed as a question, the speaker actually reveals the fact that she did pluck the little flower and then offered it up to “thee.” It remains a strange confession, but it is likely that the act of plucking the rose has set her off to realizing that it will now die. But instead of just enjoying its beauty, she continues to speculate about the life of the little flower.
Second Movement: Only Missing
Only a Bee will miss it – Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey – On its breast to lie –
In her speculation, the speaker takes into account who might have been its visitors. She exaggerates that a solitary bee “will miss” the rose because of the speaker’s act. But after saying “only” a bee will note that the little rose is missing, she remembers that likely a “butterfly” will also note its absence.
The butterfly will have traveled perhaps miles to rest upon the little rose’s “breast.” And the butterfly, the speaker speculates, will have been hurrying to finish its “journey” that led it to the rose’s abode. Now after it makes that hastened trip, it will be astonished, or perhaps frustrated, that the little flower has gone missing.
Third Movement: The Ease of Dying
Only a Bird will wonder – Only a Breeze will sigh – Ah Little Rose – how easy For such as thee to die!
The speaker continues to catalogue those creatures who will be missing the little rose. She notes that in addition to the bee and the butterfly, some bird is going to wonder what happened to the flower. The last entity to ponder the absence of the little rose is the “Breeze,” which will “sigh” as it wafts over the location that once held the sweet fragrance of the rose.
After the speaker’s intense musing to herself and to the Blessèd Creator of nature, she then addresses the rose itself, but all she can do is offer a simple, humble remark about how “easy” it is for a creature such as the “Little Rose” “to die!” Her excited utterance, however, belies the simplicity of the words. Her heart is filled with the sadness and sorrow that accompany the missing of loved ones.
The speaker has created and assembled a family for the little rose: a bee, a butterfly, a bird, and a breeze. All of these creatures of nature have interacted with the rose, and now the speaker is musing on how they will be affected by the flower’s absence.
They will all miss her, and the speaker knows how missing a loved one feels. The ease with which a little unknown creature dies does not assuage the pain its absence will cause.
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 taste a liquor never brewed”
Emily Dickinson’s “I taste a liquor never brewed” is one of her most enthralling little poems. In this poem, the speaker is likening spiritual ardor to drunkenness.
Introduction and Text of “I taste a liquor never brewed”
The theme of Emily Dickinson’s “I taste a liquor never brewed” is similar to Paramahansa Yogananda’s chant: “I will sing thy Name, I will drink thy Name, and get all drunk, O, with thy Name!”
Dickinson’s speaker proclaims a spiritual consciousness. The poem extends the metaphor of drunkenness to describe the status of a soul in mystical union with the Divine.
Dickinson’s speaker in “I taste a liquor never brewed” describes a consciousness steeped in a mystical state that mimics inebriation. She is inspired and enthralled seemingly just by breathing the air around her.
The speaker’s consciousness becomes aware of itself and propels her into an immense universe that is difficult to describe. Thus she uses the alcohol metaphor to approximate the physical sensation of what she is experiencing spiritually.
Thomas H. Johnson numbered this poem #214 in his useful work, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, which restored Dickinson’s peculiar punctuation and elliptical style. As usual, Dickinson employed slant rime or near rime; for example, she rimes Pearl and Alcohol.
I taste a liquor never brewed
I taste a liquor never brewed – From Tankards scooped in Pearl – Not all the Vats upon the Rhine Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air – am I – And Debauchee of Dew – Reeling – thro endless summer days – From inns of Molten Blue –
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove’s door – When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” – I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats – And Saints – to windows run – To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun —
Commentary on “I taste a liquor never brewed”
Emily Dickinson’s “I taste a liquor never brewed” is one of the poet’s most enthralling little poems, employing the metaphor of drunkenness to describe spiritual ardor.
Stanza 1: Imbibing a Non-Brewed Beverage
I taste a liquor never brewed – From Tankards scooped in Pearl – Not all the Vats upon the Rhine Yield such an Alcohol!
The speaker announces that she has been imbibing a drink, but that beverage is not one that has been brewed, which eliminates alcohol, tea, and coffee, this is, the beverages which have mind-altering capabilities. She then begins an extended metaphor, likening the effect of her “liquor” to that of an alcoholic beverage.
The “Tankards scooped in Pearl” simulate the vessels from which the speaker has been imbibing her rare concoction. The consciousness which the speaker wishes to describe transcends the physical consciousness of an alcohol hum; thus the speaker must resort to metaphor to communicate as nearly as possible this ineffable state.
Those rare tankards having been “scooped in Pearl” spiritually correspond to the nature of the soul. She has, in fact, drunk a beverage that has not been brewed from a vessel that has not been manufactured by human hands.
Stanza 2: It Resembles Being Drunk
Inebriate of Air – am I – And Debauchee of Dew – Reeling – thro endless summer days – From inns of Molten Blue –
Dickinson’s speaker continues her metaphor by revealing that the feeling she is experiencing is like being drunk on air; thus the act of simply taking a breath of air has the power to intoxicate her.
Not only air, but the “Dew” has this delicious effect. Further physical realities like a summer day make her feel that she has been drinking at a tavern, “Inns of Molten Blue.” All this imbibing leaves her “reeling” from this rare form of intoxicant.
Stanza 3: A Drunken State That Never Ceases
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove’s door – When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” – I shall but drink the more!
On the stage of nature, the speaker is accompanied by “bees and butterflies,” and these fellow creatures quite literally imbibe nectar from flowers. The speaker’s brand of liquor has an advantage over that of the bees. They have to stop their imbibing and leave their blossoms or else they will become trapped as the petals close up for the night.
But because of the spiritual nature of this speaker’s intoxication, she does not have stop drinking. She can enjoy her drunken state without end. Only on the physical plane do activities begin and end; on the spiritual plane, the intoxication has no need to cease. The eternal soul is without boundaries of space and time.
Stanza 4; The Dash That Runs to Eternity
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats – And Saints – to windows run – To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun –
The speaker boasts that she will never have to curtail her mode of mystical intoxication. As the penultimate stanza ends with the claim, “I shall but drink the more!,” the idea continues into the final stanza. By placing the time of her stopping her drinking at two fantastic events that will never occur, she emphatically asserts that she will never have to stop her drinking binge.
When the highest order of angels, the “Seraphs,” commit the unlikely act of “swing[ing] their snowy Hats,” and curious saints run to windows, only then shall she cease her imbibing. That time is never because Seraphs and saints do not comport themselves with such behavior.
The speaker calls herself “the little Tippler” and positions herself “[l]eaning against the — Sun.” Another impossible act on the physical level, but one quite possible on the mystical.
The final clue that the speaker is asserting her ability never to stop drinking of the mystical wine is the final punctuation of the dash — that concludes her report. The period, question mark, or exclamation mark, as some editors have employed, denote finality while the dash does not.
Thomas H. Johnson has restored the dash — to this poem in his The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. When other versions lose the Dickinsonian dash, they also lose a nuance of her meaning.
