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

'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold

'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold

538

'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold—
But then—Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling 'twas—
Forget it—Lord—of Them—


Let not my Witness hinder Them
In Heavenly esteem—
No Paradise could be—Conferred
Through Their beloved Blame—


The Harm They did—was short—And since
Myself—who bore it—do—
Forgive Them—Even as Myself—
Or else—forgive not me—
218

'Tis Opposites-entice

'Tis Opposites-entice

355

'Tis Opposites-entice-
Deformed Men-ponder Grace-
Bright fires-the Blanketless-
The Lost-Day's face-

The Blind-esteem it be
Enough Estate-to see-
The Captive-strangles new-
For deeming-Beggars-play-

To lack-enamor Thee-
Tho' the Divinity-
Be only
Me-
351

'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!

'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!

172

'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I,
Have ventured all upon a throw!
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so-
This side the Victory!


Life is but Life! And Death, but Death!
Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath!
And if indeed I fail,
At least, to know the worst, is sweet!
Defeat means nothing but Defeat,
No drearier, can befall!


And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea!
Oh Bells, that in the Steeples be!
At first, repeat it slow!
For Heaven is a different thing,
Conjectured, and waked sudden in-
And might extinguish me!
251

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

335

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so'
Tis Living-hurts us more-
But Dying-is a different way-
A Kind behind the Door-

The Southern Custom-of the Bird-
That ere the Frosts are due-
Accepts a better LatitudeWe-
are the Birds-that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers' doors-
For whose reluctant Crumb-
We stipulate-till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.
295

'Tis good-the looking back on Grief

'Tis good-the looking back on Grief

660

'Tis good-the looking back on Grief-
To re-endure a Day-
We thought the Mighty Funeral-
Of All Conceived Joy-

To recollect how Busy Grass
Did meddle-one by one-
Till all the Grief with Summer-waved
And none could see the stone.

And though the Woe you have Today
Be larger-As the Sea
Exceeds its Unremembered DropThey're
Water-equally-
289

Till Death—is narrow Loving

Till Death—is narrow Loving

907

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—
253

'Tis Anguish grander than Delight

'Tis Anguish grander than Delight

984

'Tis Anguish grander than Delight
'Tis Resurrection Pain-
The meeting Bands of smitten Face
We questioned to, again.

'Tis Transport wild as thrills the Graves
When Cerements let go
And Creatures clad in Miracle
Go up by Two and Two.
181

Through the strait pass of suffering

Through the strait pass of suffering

792

Through the strait pass of suffering-
The Martyrs-even-trod.
Their feet-upon Temptations-
Their faces-upon God-

A stately-shriven-CompanyConvulsion-
playing roundHarmless-
as streaks of Meteor-
Upon a Planet's Bond-

Their faith-the everlasting troth-
Their Expectation-fair-
The Needle-to the North DegreeWades-
so-thro' polar Air!
225

Through lane it lay—through bramble

Through lane it lay—through bramble

9

Through lane it lay—through bramble—
Through clearing and through wood—
Banditti often passed us
Upon the lonely road.


The wolf came peering curious—
The owl looked puzzled down—
The serpent's satin figure
Glid stealthily along—


The tempests touched our garments—
The lightning's poinards gleamed—
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed—


The satyr's fingers beckoned—
The valley murmured "Come"—
These were the mates—
This was the road
Those children fluttered home.
259

Tho' my destiny be Fustian

Tho' my destiny be Fustian

163

Tho' my destiny be Fustian-
Hers be damask fine-
Tho' she wear a silver apron-
I, a less divine-


Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,


For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!


Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil-
And no Reapers stand!
282

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