Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

1830–1886 · lived 55 years US US

Emily Dickinson was a prolific American poet whose work was largely unknown during her lifetime. Her poems are characterized by their unconventional style, exploring themes of nature, death, immortality, and faith with unique imagery and introspective depth. She is now recognized as one of the most important figures in American poetry, known for her distinct voice and innovative approach to form and language.

n. 1830-12-10, Amherst · m. 1886-05-15, Amherst

150,129 Views

We see-Comparatively

We see-Comparatively

534

We see-Comparatively-
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided-Yesterday-

This Morning's finer Verdict-
Makes scarcely worth the toil-
A furrow-Our Cordillera-
Our Apennine-a Knoll-

Perhaps 'tis kindly-done us-
The Anguish-and the loss-
The wrenching-for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us-

To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin-
The waking in a Gnat's-embrace-
Our Giants-further on-
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Emily Dickinson is one of America's most celebrated poets. She often wrote under her own name. She was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, and died there. Her family was prominent in Amherst society, and she came from a lineage of lawyers and politicians. She was an American national and wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Dickinson grew up in a devoutly religious household, which likely influenced her later theological explorations. She attended Amherst Academy and Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, receiving a rigorous education for the time. Her early readings included the Bible, works by Ralph Waldo Emerson, and classical literature, which undoubtedly shaped her intellectual and poetic development. Significant events in her youth included periods of intense religious engagement and growing introspection.

Literary trajectory

Dickinson began writing poetry at a young age, with her output increasing significantly in the 1860s. Her style evolved, becoming increasingly concise, introspective, and experimental. While she shared her poems with friends and family, she did not actively seek publication. A few poems were published anonymously during her lifetime, often altered by editors. She did not engage with literary magazines or anthologies in a conventional manner.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Dickinson's major works are her nearly 1,800 poems, most of which were published posthumously. Dominant themes include nature, death, immortality, faith, doubt, love, and the self. Her poems are known for their radical compression, slant rhyme, unconventional capitalization, and use of dashes. Her poetic devices are striking, creating vivid imagery and a unique rhythm. The tone can range from ecstatic to despairing, often employing irony and a deeply personal voice that transcends to the universal. Her language is precise, often using domestic imagery to explore profound philosophical ideas. She is associated with no specific literary movement but is a precursor to modernism.

Cultural and historical context

Dickinson lived during a period of significant social and intellectual change in the United States, including the abolitionist movement and the Civil War, though these are not overt subjects in her poetry. She engaged intellectually with Transcendentalism, particularly through Emerson's writings, and her work reflects a broader cultural questioning of religious and social norms. Her isolation in Amherst created a unique space for her creative development, setting her apart from established literary circles.

Personal life

Dickinson's personal life was largely private and centered in Amherst. Her relationships with family, particularly her brother Austin and his wife Susan Gilbert, were complex and deeply influential. Friendships, such as with Thomas Wentworth Higginson, provided intellectual companionship and some encouragement. Her intense inner life, marked by periods of profound introspection and perhaps illness, is reflected in the depth and originality of her poetry. She did not pursue a parallel profession, dedicating herself to her inner world and writing.

Recognition and reception

During her lifetime, Dickinson received very little recognition, with only a handful of poems published in altered forms. Her major posthumous publication in 1890 by Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson marked the beginning of her rise to prominence. Over time, her work has achieved immense critical acclaim and immense academic recognition, establishing her as a central figure in American literature.

Influences and legacy

Dickinson was influenced by the Bible, hymnology, and writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson. Her legacy is immense; she profoundly influenced modern poetry with her innovative use of language, form, and thematic exploration. She is a cornerstone of the American literary canon, and her poems are widely translated, studied, and adapted into music and other art forms. Her work continues to inspire poets and readers worldwide.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Dickinson's poetry invites multiple interpretations, often focusing on her exploration of consciousness, spirituality, and the human condition. Critical analysis has delved into her complex relationship with faith and doubt, her unique perspective on death, and the psychological dimensions of her work. Debates often surround the dating and ordering of her poems and the extent of her engagement with social issues.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Dickinson was known for her reclusive habits in her later years, often dressing in white. There is a fascinating tension between her seemingly quiet life and the radical, often explosive, nature of her poetry. Anecdotal evidence suggests her intense observational skills and a profound, sometimes unsettling, wit. She was known to bake and engage in household activities, which stood in contrast to her abstract poetic explorations.

Death and memory

Emily Dickinson died in Amherst, Massachusetts. Her memory is preserved through her extraordinary body of work, the preservation of her home as a museum, and ongoing critical and scholarly engagement with her life and poetry. Numerous posthumous collections and scholarly editions have ensured her enduring presence in literary history.

Poems

541

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did

426

It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did—
I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "Dead."
Put it in Latin—left of my school—
Seems it don't shriek so—under rule.


Turn it, a little—full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest—
Shift it—just—
Say "When Tomorrow comes this way—
I shall have waded down one Day."


I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb
Like other new Things—shows largest—then—
And smaller, by Habit—


It's shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance—a Year—
How like "a fit"—then—
Murder—wear!
309

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon

978

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon-
The Flower-distinct and Red-
I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in its stead

Will equal glow, and thought no More
But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared-
The Same Locality-

The Sun in place-no other fraud
On Nature's perfect Sum-
Had I but lingered Yesterday-
Was my retrieveless blame-

Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking its Resemblance-
But unapproached it stands-

The single Flower of the Earth
That I, in passing by
Unconscious was-Great Nature's Face
Passed infinite by Me-
328

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

584

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not feel the Anguish go-
But only knew by looking back-
That something-had benumbed the Track-


Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock-
I hung upon the Peg, at night.


But not the Grief-that nestled close
As needles-ladies softly press
To Cushions Cheeks-
To keep their place-


Nor what consoled it, I could trace-
Except, whereas 'twas WildernessIt's
better-almost Peace-
312

Is it true, dear Sue?

Is it true, dear Sue?

218

Is it true, dear Sue?
Are there two?
I shouldn't like to come
For fear of joggling Him!
If I could shut him up
In a Coffee Cup,
Or tie him to a pin
Till I got in-
Or make him fast
To "Toby's" fist-
Hist! Whist! I'd come!
332

Is Bliss then, such Abyss

Is Bliss then, such Abyss

340

Is Bliss then, such Abyss,
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?


I'd rather suit my foot
Than save my Boot-
For yet to buy another Pair
Is possible,
At any store-


But Bliss, is sold just once.
The Patent lost
None buy it any more-
Say, Foot, decide the point-
The Lady cross, or not?
Verdict for Boot!
260

In Winter in my Room

In Winter in my Room

1670

In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm-
Pink, lank and warm-
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home-
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.

A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I'd not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood-
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power-

The very string with which
I tied him-too
When he was mean and new
That string was there-

I shrank-"How fair you are"!
Propitiation's claw"
Afraid," he hissed
"Of me"?
"No cordiality"-
He fathomed me-
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.

That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.
414

In lands I never saw—they say

In lands I never saw—they say

124

In lands I never saw—they say
Immortal Alps look down—
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament—
Whose Sandals touch the town—


Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play—
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?
215

I'm the little Heart's Ease

I'm the little "Heart's Ease"

176

I'm the little "Heart's Ease"!
I don't care for pouting skies!
If the Butterfly delay
Can I, therefore, stay away?


If the Coward Bumble Bee
In his chimney corner stay,
I, must resoluter be!
Who'll apologize for me?


Dear, Old fashioned, little flower!
Eden is old fashioned, too!
Birds are antiquated fellows!
Heaven does not change her blue.
Nor will I, the little Heart's Ease-
Ever be induced to do!
321

In Ebon Box, when years have flown

In Ebon Box, when years have flown

169

In Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!


To hold a letter to the light-
Grown Tawny now, with time-
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!


Perhaps a Flower's shrivelled check
Among its stores to find-
Plucked far away, some morning-
By gallant-mouldering hand!


A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot-
Perhaps, an Antique trinket-
In vanished fashions set!


And then to lay them quiet back-
And go about its care-
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!
296

I'm sorry for the Dead—Today

I'm sorry for the Dead—Today

529

I'm sorry for the Dead—Today—
It's such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences—
It's time o' year for Hay.


And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil—
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile—


It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields—
The Busy Carts—the fragrant Cocks—
The Mower's Metre—Steals—


A Trouble lest they're homesick—
Those Farmers—and their Wives—
Set separate from the Farming—
And all the Neighbors' lives—


A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don't feel a lonesome way—
When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June,
Go down the Fields to "Hay"—
205

Quotes

40

Videos

50

Comments (0)

Share
Log in to post a comment.

No comments yet. Be the first to comment.