‘Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
So over Horror, it half Captivates—
The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—

To scan a Ghost, is faint—
But grappling, conquers it—
How easy, Torment, now—
Suspense kept sawing so—

The Truth, is Bald, and Cold—
But that will hold—
If any are not sure—
We show them—prayer—
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now—

Looking at Death, is Dying—
Just let go the Breath—
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth—

Others, Can wrestle—
Yours, is done—
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
It sets the Fright at liberty—
And Terror’s free—
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross –
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge –
The Dead shall go in White –
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross –
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge –
The Dead shall go in White –
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

Dying! Dying in the night!
Won’t somebody bring the light
So I can see which way to go
Into the everlasting snow?

And “Jesus”! Where is Jesus gone?
They said that Jesus — always came –
Perhaps he doesn’t know the House –
This way, Jesus, Let him pass!

Somebody run to the great gate
And see if Dollie’s coming! Wait!
I hear her feet upon the stair!
Death won’t hurt — now Dollie’s here!

If this is “fading”
Oh let me immediately “fade”!
If this is “dying”
Bury me, in such a shroud of red!
If this is “sleep,”
On such a night
How proud to shut the eye!
Good Evening, gentle Fellow men!
Peacock presumes to die!

Distrustful of the Gentian –
And just to turn away,
The fluttering of her fringes
Child my perfidy –
Weary for my ———-
I will singing go –
I shall not feel the sleet — then –
I shall not fear the snow.

Flees so the phantom meadow
Before the breathless Bee –
So bubble brooks in deserts
On Ears that dying lie –
Burn so the Evening Spires
To Eyes that Closing go –
Hangs so distant Heaven –
To a hand below.

The dying need but little, dear, –
A glass of water’s all,
A flower’s unobtrusive face
To punctuate the wall,

A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,
And certainly that one
No color in the rainbow
Perceives when you are gone.

A few Dickinson news items have drawn our attention, and might warrant yours:

• Guy Noir sings Emily Dickinson?: the Amherst Bulletin notes that Emily Dickinson was the butt of an extended joke on Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion last week, with the erstwhile P.I. Guy Noir auditioning for a role in “Stop for Death,” a Dickinson musical. Of course, this is the same Keillor whose latest CD is called “English Majors” and who holds sonnet contests, so I’m sure the joke was in good fun (Cub Scout activities kept me from hearing the show myself, alas). I seem to remember an amusing riff a few months ago that involved Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, and wood ticks; Keillor is certainly one to monitor . . .
• Dickinson Marathon in St. Paul: another story with a Minnesota connection: St. Thomas University will hold a Dickinson marathon on April 25, 8:00 AM to 8:00 PM, in the O’Shaughnessy Room of O’Shaughnessy-Frey Library Center. “The goal: To read aloud all of Dickinson’s poems — from #1 to #1,789 — between 8 a.m. and midnight. Readers can come and go as they please; stay for a half-hour or make a day of it. Participants will sit in a circle and take turns reading; listeners are welcome too.” Common Good Books–Garrison Keillor’s bookstore–has provided copies of Franklin’s edition of Dickinson; this seems like a conspiracy . . .
• Wild Nights! reviews are all around us this Spring: the Minneapolis Star Tribune weighs in (will these Minnesotans not leave poor Dickinson be?), as does the New York Times Book Review. According to the Book Review’s podcast, the NYT reviewer Brenda Wineapple has a book about Dickinson and Higginson hitting the shelves this August.
• A Summer of Hummingbirds by Christopher Benfey is the next Dickinson-related book to watch: a fascinating look into the intersections of Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, and Martin Johnson Heade, a naturalist and artist who specialized in hummingbirds, a creature which frequently inhabits Dickinson’s poems.
• Fleda Brown discusses “I heard a fly buzz” in her ongoing series for National Poetry Month (and you thought April was just about fools and taxes . . .)
• Finally, we hope that the “Daily” aspect of “Daily Dickinson” will return this week, with several non-poetic things coming under control here at DailyDickionson World Headquarters; stay tuned!

Stanford University’s Continuing Studies program presents several Dickinson-inspired events this winter:

Soul at White Heat

January 30, 7:00 PM, Dinkelspiel Auditoreum

Dramatic readings of Dickinson’s poems and letters performed by Word for Word and other theater groups, 19th-century music performed on period instruments, and a lively conversation among Dickinson scholars.

The Music Emily Heard

February 13, 7:30 PM, Campbell Recital Hall, Braun Music Center

An evening of parlor music, hymns, and popular song recreates the musical landscape of Dickinson’s time and place. David Giovacchini and ensemble will perform.

The Ghoul of Amherst

March 12, 7:00 pm, Roble Studio Theater

JoAnne Winter of Word for Word will perform Amy Freed’s “The Ghoul of Amherst”, described as “a short, comic vignette set during Emily’s death bed visit to a dying school chum. It addresses with admiration and humor Miss Dickinson’s more grisly preoccupations with the mysteries of the grave.” (This one sounds like particular fun; anyone who has been following along with the mostly-daily poems can’t help but notice that there’s a striking mixture of humor and horror in Dickinson’s meditations on mortality. We here at Daily Dickinson will be doing a little research on Ms. Freed’s work.)

If you’re in the Bay Area this winter, these look like a great way to spend some evenings; they’re all free and open to the public. Any Daily Dickinson readers who attend can drop us a line and give us a review.

The sun kept setting, setting still;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived, –
From house to house ‘t was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
‘T is dying, I am doing; but
I’m not afraid to know.