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 one 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, 1891.

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.

LIFE

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 frogTo tell your name the livelong dayTo an admiring bog!

I bring an unaccustomed wineTo 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 warmThe bosoms where the frost has lainAges beneath the mould.Some other thirsty there may beTo whom this would have pointed meHad it remained to speak.And so I always bear the cupIf, haply, mine may be the dropSome 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 boyStaring, bewildered, at the mocking sky. Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies notThat brews that rare variety.

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 handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.

I found the phrase to every thoughtI ever had, but one;And that defies me, – as a handDid try to chalk the sunTo 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 feathersThat 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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat 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 oreHas sated flame's conditions, Its quivering substance playsWithout a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil's even dinStands 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 unpreparedA coronet to find;Who never thirsted, flagonsAnd cooling tamarind.Who never climbed the weary league —Can such a foot exploreThe purple territoriesOn Pizarro's shore?How many legions overcome?The emperor will say.How many colors takenOn 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 joyBreaks 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!

ESCAPE

I never hear the word "escape"Without a quicker blood,A sudden expectation,A flying attitude.I never hear of prisons broadBy soldiers battered down,But I tug childish at my bars, —Only to fail again!

XI.

COMPENSATION

For each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.

XII.

THE MARTYRS

Through the straight pass of sufferingThe martyrs even trod,Their feet upon temptation,Their faces upon God.A stately, shriven company;Convulsion playing round,Harmless as streaks of meteorUpon a planet's bound.Their faith the everlasting troth;Their expectation fair;The needle to the north degreeWades 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 prayerBut just for one to stipulate,And grace would grant the pair.And so, upon this wise I prayed, —Great Spirit, give to meA 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 extantAs take the tale for trueThat "Whatsoever you shall ask,Itself be given you."But I, grown shrewder, scan the skiesWith a suspicious air, —As children, swindled for the first,All swindlers be, infer.

XIV

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

The soul unto itselfIs an imperial friend, —Or the most agonizing spyAn enemy could send.Secure against its own,No treason it can fear;Itself its sovereign, of itselfThe soul should stand in awe.

XVI

Surgeons must be very carefulWhen they take the knife!Underneath their fine incisionsStirs 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, stepAround a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pareTo fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hillAnd 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 meMy neighbor be.Fair play —Both went to see.

XIX

Delight becomes pictorialWhen viewed through pain, —More fair, because impossibleThat any gain.The mountain at a given distanceIn amber lies;Approached, the amber flits a little, —And that 's the skies!

A thought went up my mind to-dayThat I have had before,But did not finish, – some way back,I could not fix the year,Nor where it went, nor why it cameThe second time to me,Nor definitely what it was,Have I the art to say.But somewhere in my soul, I knowI '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 ecstasyThat 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 turnTo 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 dayFlowed silver to the west,Nor noticed night did soft descendNor constellation burn,Intent upon the visionOf latitudes unknown.The angels, happening that way,This dusty heart espied;Tenderly took it up from toilAnd carried it to God.There, – sandals for the barefoot;There, – gathered from the gales,Do the blue havens by the handLead 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 shamedThis 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 prayerI 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 joyWithout 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-nightTo 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 lipsToo rapt with frostTo take it.How sweet it would have tasted,Just a drop!Was God so economical?His table 's spread too high for usUnless we dine on tip-toe.Crumbs fit such little mouths,Cherries suit robins;The eagle's golden breakfastStrangles them.God keeps his oath to sparrows,Who of little loveKnow 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 luxuryTo own it, touch it, prove the featThat made the pellet mine, —Too happy in my sparrow chanceFor 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 crumbAm sovereign of them all.

XXVIII

Experiment to meIs every one I meet.If it contain a kernel?The figure of a nutPresents 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 sweetAs when 't was cut at Lexington,And first pronounced "a fit."Great Britain disapproves "the stars;"Disparagement discreet, —There 's something in their attitudeThat taunts her bayonet.

XXX

Faith is a fine inventionFor gentlemen who see;But microscopes are prudentIn 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 departI never thought to see,Afflicts me with a double loss;'T is lost, and lost to me.

XXXII

Portraits are to daily facesAs an evening westTo a fine, pedantic sunshineIn 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 myselfWas all the one that fell.Was it Goliath was too large,Or only I too small?

XXXIV

A shady friend for torrid daysIs easier to findThan one of higher temperatureFor frigid hour of mind.The vane a little to the eastScares muslin souls away;If broadcloth breasts are firmerThan those of organdy,Who is to blame? The weaver?Ah! the bewildering thread!The tapestries of paradiseSo notelessly are made!

XXXV.

THE GOAL

Each life converges to some centreExpressed or still;Exists in every human natureA goal,Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility's temerityTo dare.Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow's raimentTo touch,Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints' slow diligenceThe sky!Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain.

XXXVI.

SIGHT

Before I got my eye put out,I liked as well to seeAs other creatures that have eyes,And know no other way.But were it told to me, to-day,That I might have the skyFor mine, I tell you that my heartWould split, for size of me.The meadows mine, the mountains mine, —All forests, stintless stars,As much of noon as I could takeBetween 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 soulUpon the window-paneWhere other creatures put their eyes,Incautious of the sun.

XXXVII

Talk with prudence to a beggarOf 'Potosi' and the mines!Reverently to the hungryOf your viands and your wines!Cautious, hint to any captiveYou have passed enfranchised feet!Anecdotes of air in dungeonsHave 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

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