Emily Dickinson's Poem

Emily Dickinson was an American poet born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts, and she died on May 15, 1886. She is renowned for her unique and innovative style of poetry. Dickinson is known for her short, often cryptic, and deeply introspective poems that explore themes of death, nature, love, and the human psyche. Her influence on American literature and poetry is profound. Here are some key aspects of her influence: POETIC STYLE Emily Dickinson's unconventional use of punctuation, dashes, and capitalization set her apart from her contemporaries. Her brevity and elliptical style challenged traditional poetic norms and continue to inspire poets to experiment with form and structure. FEMINISM AND GENDER Dickinson's poetry often tackled issues related to women's roles and perspectives in the 19th century. Her exploration of female identity and consciousness has influenced feminist literary criticism and discussions. MODERNIST POETRY Dickinson's work is often considered a precursor to modernist poetry. Her ability to convey complex emotions and ideas in compact, fragmented verses laid the foundation for later poets like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. INDIVIDUALISM AND ISOLATION Many of Dickinson's poems touch on themes of solitude and the inner world of the individual. Her focus on the inner self and introspection resonated with later generations, particularly during times of social and political upheaval. PUBLICATION POSTHUMOUSLY Dickinson's poems were largely unknown during her lifetime, but after her death, her sister discovered her extensive body of work. The publication of her poems in the late 19th and early 20th centuries brought her widespread recognition and made her a celebrated figure in American literature. INFLUENCE ON CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE Emily Dickinson's work continues to be studied and admired by poets, scholars, and readers worldwide. Her impact on contemporary poetry and literature is ongoing, with poets drawing inspiration from her innovative style and exploration of timeless themes.

OUT OF THE MORNING. Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies!

THE CHARIOT Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 't is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

XXVIII She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour! She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer's eve; Less skilful than Leverrier It's sorer to believe!

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.

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.

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.

MOTHER NATURE. Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, — Her admonition mild In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird. How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon, — Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower. When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

CHOICE Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand; When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, — Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay!

SECRETS. The skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills — The hills just tell the orchards — And they the daffodils! A bird, by chance, that goes that way Soft overheard the whole. If I should bribe the little bird, Who knows but she would tell? I think I won't, however, It's finer not to know; If summer were an axiom, What sorcery had snow? So keep your secret, Father! I would not, if I could, Know what the sapphire fellows do, In your new-fashioned world!

THE BLUEBIRD. Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness, A fellow in the skies Of independent hues, A little weather-worn, Inspiriting habiliments Of indigo and brown. With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self!

APRIL. An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads, — All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus' mystery Receives its annual reply.