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

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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-
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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

I many times thought Peace had come

I many times thought Peace had come

739

I many times thought Peace had come
When Peace was far away-
As Wrecked Men-deem they sight the Land-
At Centre of the Sea-

And struggle slacker-but to prove
As hopelessly as I-
How many the fictitious Shores-
Before the Harbor be-
291

I made slow Riches but my Gain

I made slow Riches but my Gain

843

I made slow Riches but my Gain
Was steady as the Sun
And every Night, it numbered more
Than the preceding One

All Days, I did not earn the same
But my perceiveless Gain
Inferred the less by Growing than
The Sum that it had grown.
201

I lived on dread; to those who know

I lived on dread; to those who know

I lived on dread; to those who know
The stimulus there is
In danger, other impetus
Is numb and vital-less.


As't were a spur upon the soul,
A fear will urge it where
To go without the spectre's aid
Were challenging despair.
279

I live with Him—I see His face

I live with Him—I see His face

463

I live with Him—I see His face—
I go no more away
For Visitor—or Sundown—
Death's single privacy


The Only One—forestalling Mine—
And that—by Right that He
Presents a Claim invisible—
No wedlock—granted Me—


I live with Him—I hear His Voice—
I stand alive—Today—
To witness to the Certainty
Of Immortality—


Taught Me—by Time—the lower Way—
Conviction—Every day—
That Life like This—is stopless—
Be Judgment—what it may—
174

I like a look of Agony

I like a look of Agony

241

I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it's true-
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe-

The Eyes glaze once-and that is Death-
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.
322

I know some lonely Houses off the Road

I know some lonely Houses off the Road

289

I know some lonely Houses off the Road
A Robber'd like the look of-
Wooden barred,
And Windows hanging low,
Inviting to-
A Portico,
Where two could creepOne-
hand the Tools-
The other peep-
To make sure All's Asleep-
Old fashioned eyes-
Not easy to surprise!


How orderly the Kitchen'd look, by night,
With just a Clock-
But they could gag the Tick-
And Mice won't bark-
And so the Walls-don't tellNone-
will-


A pair of Spectacles ajar just stir-
An Almanac's aware-
Was it the Mat-winked,
Or a Nervous Star?
The Moon-slides down the stair,
To see who's there!


There's plunder-where-
Tankard, or SpoonEarring-
or Stone-
A Watch-Some Ancient Brooch
To match the Grandmama-
Staid sleeping-there


Day-rattles-too
Stealth's-slow-
The Sun has got as far
As the third Sycamore-
Screams Chanticleer
"Who's there"?


And Echoes-Trains away,
Sneer-"Where"!
While the old Couple, just astir,
Fancy the Sunrise-left the door ajar!
387

I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells

I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells

460

I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells—
Deep dug—for Summer days—
Where Mosses go no more away—
And Pebble—safely plays—


It's made of Fathoms—and a Belt—
A Belt of jagged Stone—
Inlaid with Emerald—half way down—
And Diamonds—jumbled on—


It has no Bucket—Were I rich
A Bucket I would buy—
I'm often thirsty—but my lips
Are so high up—You see—


I read in an Old fashioned Book
That People "thirst no more"—
The Wells have Buckets to them there—
It must mean that—I'm sure—


Shall We remember Parching—then?
Those Waters sound so grand—
I think a little Well—like Mine—
Dearer to understand—
311

I hide myself within my flower

I hide myself within my flower

903

I hide myself within my flower,
That fading from your Vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me-
Almost a loneliness.
276

I know a place where summer strives

I know a place where summer strives

I know a place where summer strives
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,
Recording briefly, 'Lost.'


But when the south wind stirs the pools
And struggles in the lanes,
Her heart misgives her for her vow,
And she pours soft refrains


Into the lap of adamant,
And spices, and the dew,
That stiffens quietly to quartz
Upon her amber shoe.
289

I heard a fly buzz when I died;

I heard a fly buzz when I died;

I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.


The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.


I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,--and then
There interposed a fly,


With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
337

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