dying

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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.

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DYING.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.

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The last night that she lived,The last night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.

We noticed smallest things, –
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as ‘t were.

That others could exist
While she must finish quite,
A jealousy for her arose
So nearly infinite.

We waited while she passed;
It was a narrow time,
Too jostled were our souls to speak,
At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot;
Then lightly as a reed
Bent to the water, shivered scarce,
Consented, and was dead.

And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.

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To know just how he suffered would be dearTo know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet — and the junction be Eternity?

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I've seen a dying eyeI’ve seen a dying eye
Run round and round a room
In search of something, as it seemed,
Then cloudier become;
And then, obscure with fog,
And then be soldered down,
Without disclosing what it be,
‘T were blessed to have seen.

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To fight aloud is very braveTo fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.

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SUCCESS

SUCCESSSuccess is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear!

[Published in "A Masque of Poets" at the request of "H.H.," the author's fellow-townswoman and friend.]

How terribly un-American to so deeply understand the loser’s bitter-sweet comprehension of success. But those who fail know best what success means, and those who succeed are often quite oblivious to it.

This photograph is available as a greeting card.

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