Dating emily dickinsons poems
An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near. Was saying Yesterday To Somebody you know That you were due—The Frogs got Home last Week—Are settled, and at work—Birds, mostly back—The Clover warm and thick—You’ll get my Letter by The seventeenth; Reply Or better, be with me—Yours, Fly. That water lives so far—A neighbor from another world Residing in a jar Whose limit none have ever seen, But just his lid of glass—Like looking every time you please In an abyss’s face!
721Behind Me—dips Eternity—Before Me—Immortality—Myself—the Term between—Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray, Dissolving into Dawn away, Before the West begin—’Tis Kingdoms—afterward—they say—In perfect—pauseless Monarchy—Whose Prince—is Son of None—Himself—His Dateless Dynasty—Himself—Himself diversify—In Duplicate divine—’Tis Miracle before Me—then—’Tis Miracle behind—between—A Crescent in the Sea—With Midnight to the North of Her—And Midnight to the South of Her—And Maelstrom—in the Sky— 668“Nature” is what we see—The Hill—the Afternoon—Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—Nay—Nature is Heaven—Nature is what we hear—The Bobolink—the Sea—Thunder—the Cricket—Nay—Nature is Harmony—Nature is what we know—Yet have no art to say—So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity. The grass does not appear afraid, I often wonder he Can stand so close and look so bold At what is awe to me.
Take that familiar chestnut, #314, à la Legault: “Hope is kind of like birds.
Much time has been spent guessing at the inspiration for Dickinson's love poetry, and the nature of her secret love life.
Some biographers feel that the secret to Dickinson's poetry can be unlocked by examining her personal life, a belief which confirms some feminist scholars in their theory that literary critics believe female artists find their inspiration and creativity only through emotion and, more specifically, matters of the heart.
Dickinson’s body, with its delicate hands and slender torso, may resemble the fragile form of someone too weak to venture far from home; but her huge moist eyes stare at us with the wisdom, depth, and longing of a woman who has traveled around the world and come back with stories, not all of them fit for mixed company.
She demurely clutches a bouquet of flowers, and a book rests primly at her side; but her full, sensuous lips reveal a person whose thoughts may not always tend toward such tidy subjects as flowers and books.