Chapter 3

I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!

Angels, twice descending, Reimbursed my store. Burglar, banker, father, I am poor once more!

POEMS

by EMILY DICKINSON

Second Series

Edited by two of her friends

MABEL LOOMIS TODD and T.W. HIGGINSON

PREFACE

The eagerness with which the first volume of Emily Dickinson's poems has been read shows very clearly that all our alleged modern artificiality does not prevent a prompt appreciation of the qualities of directness and simplicity in approaching the greatest themes,--life and love and death. That "irresistible needle-touch," as one of her best critics has called it, piercing at once the very core of a thought, has found a response as wide and sympathetic as it has been unexpected even to those who knew best her compelling power. This second volume, while open to the same criticism as to form with its predecessor, shows also the same shining beauties.

Although Emily Dickinson had been in the habit of sending occasional poems to friends and correspondents, the full extent of her writing was by no means imagined by them. Her friend "H.H." must at least have suspected it, for in a letter dated 5th September, 1884, she wrote:--

MY DEAR FRIEND,-- What portfolios full of verses you must have! It is a cruel wrong to your "day and generation" that you will not give them light.

If such a thing should happen as that I should outlive you, I wish you would make me your literary legatee and executor. Surely after you are what is called "dead" you will be willing that the poor ghosts you have left behind should be cheered and pleased by your verses, will you not? You ought to be. I do not think we have a right to withhold from the world a word or a thought any more than a deed which might help a single soul. . . .

Truly yours,

HELEN JACKSON.

The "portfolios" were found, shortly after Emily Dickinson's death, by her sister and only surviving housemate. Most of the poems had been carefully copied on sheets of note-paper, and tied in little fascicules, each of six or eight sheets. While many of them bear evidence of having been thrown off at white heat, still more had received thoughtful revision. There is the frequent addition of rather perplexing foot-notes, affording large choice of words and phrases. And in the copies which she sent to friends, sometimes one form, sometimes another, is found to have been used. Without important exception, her friends have generously placed at the disposal of the Editors any poems they had received from her; and these have given the obvious advantage of comparison among several renderings of the same verse.

To what further rigorous pruning her verses would have been subjected had she published them herself, we cannot know. They should be regarded in many cases as merely the first strong and suggestive sketches of an artist, intended to be embodied at some time in the finished picture.

Emily Dickinson appears to have written her first poems in the winter of 1862. In a letter to oone of the present Editors the April following, she says, "I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter."

The handwriting was at first somewhat like the delicate, running Italian hand of our elder gentlewomen; but as she advanced in breadth of thought, it grew bolder and more abrupt, until in her latest years each letter stood distinct and separate from its fellows. In most of her poems, particularly the later ones, everything by way of punctuation was discarded, except numerous dashes; and all important words began with capitals. The effect of a page of her more recent manuscript is exceedingly quaint and strong. The fac-simile given in the present volume is from one of the earlier transition periods. Although there is nowhere a date, the handwriting makes it possible to arrange the poems with general chronologic accuracy.

As a rule, the verses were without titles; but "A Country Burial," "A Thunder-Storm," "The Humming-Bird," and a few others were named by their author, frequently at the end,--sometimes only in the accompanying note, if sent to a friend.

The variation of readings, with the fact that she often wrote in pencil and not always clearly, have at times thrown a good deal of responsibility upon her Editors. But all interference not absolutely inevitable has been avoided. The very roughness of her rendering is part of herself, and not lightly to be touched; for it seems in many cases that she intentionally avoided the smoother and more usual rhymes.

Like impressionist pictures, or Wagner's rugged music, the very absence of conventional form challenges attention. In Emily Dickinson's exacting hands, the especial, intrinsic fitness of a particular order of words might not be sacrificed to anything virtually extrinsic; and her verses all show a strange cadence of inner rhythmical music. Lines are always daringly constructed, and the "thought-rhyme" appears frequently,--appealing, indeed, to an unrecognized sense more elusive than hearing.

Emily Dickinson scrutinized everything with clear-eyed frankness. Every subject was proper ground for legitimate study, even the sombre facts of death and burial, and the unknown life beyond. She touches these themes sometimes lightly, sometimes almost humorously, more often with weird and peculiar power; but she is never by any chance frivolous or trivial. And while, as one critic has said, she may exhibit toward God "an Emersonian self-possession," it was because she looked upon all life with a candor as unprejudiced as it is rare.

She had tried society and the world, and found them lacking. She was not an invalid, and she lived in seclusion from no love-disappointment. Her life was the normal blossoming of a nature introspective to a high degree, whose best thought could not exist in pretence.

Storm, wind, the wild March sky, sunsets and dawns; the birds and bees, butterflies and flowers of her garden, with a few trusted human friends, were sufficient companionship. The coming of the first robin was a jubilee beyond crowning of monarch or birthday of pope; the first red leaf hurrying through "the altered air," an epoch. Immortality was close about her; and while never morbid or melancholy, she lived in its presence.

MABEL LOOMIS TODD.

AMHERST, MASSACHUSETTS, August, I891.

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise,

To such, if they should whisper Of morning and the moor, They bear no other errand, And I, no other prayer.

I. LIFE.

I.

I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there 's a pair of us -- don't tell! They 'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

II.

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.

Crackling with fever, they essay; I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy glass; The lips I would have cooled, alas! Are so superfluous cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould.

Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak.

And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake, --

If, haply, any say to me, "Unto the little, unto me," When I at last awake.

III.

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover -- Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety.

IV.

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar, And our new hands Learned gem-tactics Practising sands.

V.

I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, -- as a hand Did try to chalk the sun

To races nurtured in the dark; -- How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

VI.

HOPE.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

VII.

THE WHITE HEAT.

Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire's common tint; But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame's conditions, Its quivering substance plays Without a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil's even din Stands symbol for the finer forge That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores With hammer and with blaze, Until the designated light Repudiate the forge.

VIII.

TRIUMPHANT.

Who never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.

Who never climbed the weary league -- Can such a foot explore The purple territories On Pizarro's shore?

How many legions overcome? The emperor will say. How many colors taken On Revolution Day?

How many bullets bearest? The royal scar hast thou? Angels, write "Promoted" On this soldier's brow!

IX.

THE TEST.

I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, -- I 'm used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip -- drunken. Let no pebble smile, 'T was the new liquor, -- That was all!

Power is only pain, Stranded, through discipline, Till weights will hang. Give balm to giants, And they 'll wilt, like men. Give Himmaleh, -- They 'll carry him!

X.

ESCAPE.

I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.

I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars, -- Only to fail again!

XI.

COMPENSATION.

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years, Bitter contested farthings And coffers heaped with tears.

XII.

THE MARTYRS.

Through the straight pass of suffering The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God.

A stately, shriven company; Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor Upon a planet's bound.

Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air.

XIII.

A PRAYER.

I meant to have but modest needs, Such as content, and heaven; Within my income these could lie, And life and I keep even.

But since the last included both, It would suffice my prayer But just for one to stipulate, And grace would grant the pair.

And so, upon this wise I prayed, -- Great Spirit, give to me A heaven not so large as yours, But large enough for me.

A smile suffused Jehovah's face; The cherubim withdrew; Grave saints stole out to look at me, And showed their dimples, too.

I left the place with all my might, -- My prayer away I threw; The quiet ages picked it up, And Judgment twinkled, too,

That one so honest be extant As take the tale for true That "Whatsoever you shall ask, Itself be given you."

But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies With a suspicious air, -- As children, swindled for the first, All swindlers be, infer.

XIV.

The thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, -- As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

XV.

The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, -- Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.

Secure against its own, No treason it can fear; Itself its sovereign, of itself The soul should stand in awe.

XVI.

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the culprit, -- Life!

XVII.

THE RAILWAY TRAIN.

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 sides, 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.

XVIII.

THE SHOW.

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play -- Both went to see.

XIX.

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain, -- More fair, because impossible That any gain.

The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little, -- And that 's the skies!

XX.

A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish, -- some way back, I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came The second time to me, Nor definitely what it was, Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know I 've met the thing before; It just reminded me -- 't was all -- And came my way no more.

XXI.

Is Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal, But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.

Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I 'm not a party to.

XXII.

THE RETURN.

Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony!

To think just how the fire will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!

XXIII.

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west, Nor noticed night did soft descend Nor constellation burn, Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown.

The angels, happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God. There, -- sandals for the barefoot; There, -- gathered from the gales, Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering sails.

XXIV.

TOO MUCH.

I should have been too glad, I see, Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round; My little circuit would have shamed This new circumference, have blamed The homelier time behind.

I should have been too saved, I see, Too rescued; fear too dim to me That I could spell the prayer I knew so perfect yesterday, -- That scalding one, "Sabachthani," Recited fluent here.

Earth would have been too much, I see, And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, -- The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.

Defeat whets victory, they say; The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the shore beyond. 'T is beggars banquets best define; 'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, -- Faith faints to understand.

XXV.

SHIPWRECK.

It tossed and tossed, -- A little brig I knew, -- O'ertook by blast, It spun and spun, And groped delirious, for morn.

It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight.

Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.

XXVI.

Victory comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table 's spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe. Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle's golden breakfast Strangles them. God keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve!

XXVII.

ENOUGH.

God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, -- My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the feat That made the pellet mine, -- Too happy in my sparrow chance For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair. I wonder how the rich may feel, -- An Indiaman -- an Earl? I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.

XXVIII.

Experiment to me Is every one I meet. If it contain a kernel? The figure of a nut

Presents upon a tree, Equally plausibly; But meat within is requisite, To squirrels and to me.

XXIX.

MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE.

My country need not change her gown, Her triple suit as sweet As when 't was cut at Lexington, And first pronounced "a fit."

Great Britain disapproves "the stars;" Disparagement discreet, -- There 's something in their attitude That taunts her bayonet.

XXX.

Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!

XXXI.

Except the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so; I had not hoped before.

But just to hear the grace depart I never thought to see, Afflicts me with a double loss; 'T is lost, and lost to me.

XXXII.

Portraits are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.

XXXIII.

THE DUEL.

I took my power in my hand. And went against the world; 'T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold.

I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?

XXXIV.

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.

The vane a little to the east Scares muslin souls away; If broadcloth breasts are firmer Than those of organdy,

Who is to blame? The weaver? Ah! the bewildering thread! The tapestries of paradise So notelessly are made!

XXXV.

THE GOAL.

Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be, Too fair For credibility's temerity To dare.

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven, To reach Were hopeless as the rainbow's raiment To touch,

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance; How high Unto the saints' slow diligence The sky!

Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture, But then, Eternity enables the endeavoring Again.

XXXVI.

SIGHT.

Before I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes, And know no other way.

But were it told to me, to-day, That I might have the sky For mine, I tell you that my heart Would split, for size of me.

The meadows mine, the mountains mine, -- All forests, stintless stars, As much of noon as I could take Between my finite eyes.

The motions of the dipping birds, The lightning's jointed road, For mine to look at when I liked, -- The news would strike me dead!

So safer, guess, with just my soul Upon the window-pane Where other creatures put their eyes, Incautious of the sun.

XXXVII.

Talk with prudence to a beggar Of 'Potosi' and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!

Cautious, hint to any captive You have passed enfranchised feet! Anecdotes of air in dungeons Have sometimes proved deadly sweet!

XXXVIII.

THE PREACHER.

He preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow, -- The broad are too broad to define; And of "truth" until it proclaimed him a liar, -- The truth never flaunted a sign.

Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence As gold the pyrites would shun. What confusion would cover the innocent Jesus To meet so enabled a man!

XXXIX.

Good night! which put the candle out? A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent; Extinguished, now, for you!

It might have been the lighthouse spark Some sailor, rowing in the dark, Had importuned to see! It might have been the waning lamp That lit the drummer from the camp To purer reveille!

XL.

When I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain; Spectre cannot harm, Serpent cannot charm; He deposes doom, Who hath suffered him.

XLI.

DEED.

A deed knocks first at thought, And then it knocks at will. That is the manufacturing spot, And will at home and well.

It then goes out an act, Or is entombed so still That only to the ear of God Its doom is audible.

XLII.

TIME'S LESSON.

Mine enemy is growing old, -- I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, --

Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; 'T is starving makes it fat.

XLIII.

REMORSE.

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, -- A presence of departed acts At window and at door.

It's past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, -- the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is his institution, -- The complement of hell.

XLIV.

THE SHELTER.

The body grows outside, -- The more convenient way, -- That if the spirit like to hide, Its temple stands alway

Ajar, secure, inviting; It never did betray The soul that asked its shelter In timid honesty.

XLV.

Undue significance a starving man attaches To food Far off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless, And therefore good.

Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us That spices fly In the receipt. It was the distance Was savory.

XLVI.

Heart not so heavy as mine, Wending late home, As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune, --

A careless snatch, a ballad, A ditty of the street; Yet to my irritated ear An anodyne so sweet,

It was as if a bobolink, Sauntering this way, Carolled and mused and carolled, Then bubbled slow away.

It was as if a chirping brook Upon a toilsome way Set bleeding feet to minuets Without the knowing why.

To-morrow, night will come again, Weary, perhaps, and sore. Ah, bugle, by my window, I pray you stroll once more!

XLVII.

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 lie.

XLVIII.

Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.

XLIX.

This merit hath the worst, -- It cannot be again. When Fate hath taunted last And thrown her furthest stone,

The maimed may pause and breathe, And glance securely round. The deer invites no longer Than it eludes the hound.

L.

HUNGER.

I had been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread, 'T was so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, -- Myself felt ill and odd, As berry of a mountain bush Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry; so I found That hunger was a way Of persons outside windows, The entering takes away.

LI.

I gained it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.